M. 


A    ROUND    TABLE 

OF   THE    REPRESENTATIVE 

IRISH  AND  ENGLISH   CATHOLIC  NOVELISTS. 


i/'**-*. 


A    ROUND    TABLE 


{. ' 


OF  THE  REPRESENTATIVE 


IRISH   AND   ENGLISH   CATHOLIC 
NOVELISTS, 

At  which  is  Served  a  Feast  of  Excellent  Stories 


LOUISA   EMILY   DOBREE,  FRANCES   M.    MAITLAND, 

M.  E.  FRANCIS,  SOPHIE  MAUDE, 

THEO.  GIFT,  CLARA   MULHOLLAND, 
BARONESS  PAULINE  VON  HUGEL,    ROSA   MULHOLLAND, 

LADY  AMABEL   KERR,  MRS.    BARTLE  TEELING, 

R.    B.   SHERIDAN   KNOWLES,  KATH.  TYNAN   HINKSON. 

IVitb   Tortraitfi,    'Biographical  Sketches,    and   'Bibliography. 


THIRD    EDITION. 


New  York,  Cincinnati,  Chicago  : 
BENZIGER    BROTHERS, 

Printers  to  the  Holy  Apostolic  See. 


? 


/  O  To  ? 


Copyright,  1897,  by  Benziger  Brothers. 


Contents. 


PAGE 

A  Dress  Ring Louisa  Emily  Dobr/e  9 

In  St.  Patrick's  Ward, Jlf.  E.  Francis  29 

A  Soldier's  Wife IWieo.  Gift  51 

Fair  Dorothy  Wilmot,    .      Baroness  Pauline  von  Iliigel  49 

Just  What  Was  Wanted Lady  Amabel  Kerr  105 

yacinth's  Regrets,    .    .     ,    ,  R.  B.  Sheridan  Knowles  129 

Miss  Packe, '.'■[.  Erdnces  M.  Maitland  167 

A  Paste  Buckle, Sophie  Maude  201 

Mave's  Repentance, Clara  Mulholland  225 

Granny  Grogan Rosa  Mulholland  Gilbert  249 

Her  Last  Stake Mrs.    Bartle  Teeling  275 

The  Wardrobe Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson  323 

5 


LOUISA  EMILY  DOBREE. 

Louisa  Emily  Dobree,  a  native  of  Tours,  France,  is  of 
Irish  descent  on  her  mother's  side,  while  her  father's  family, 
which  is  a  Guernsey  one.  was  originally  French,  as  the 
name  shows. 

Miss  Dobree's  first  story  was  published  when  she  was 
nineteen.  This  was  followed  by  fugitive  articles  and  short 
stories  in  magazines  as  well  as  books  for  young  people, 
among  which  are  the  following :  ••  Loved  into  Shape." 
'•  Dreams  and  Deeds."  "  Terry,"  •   One  Talent  Only,"  •■  A 


Knotless .Thread,"  "  Underneath  the  Surface."  "A  Lowly 
Life  with  a  Lofty  Aim,"  and  ••  Turned  to  Gold."  These 
were  published  at  intervals  of  sometimes  great  length. 

In  1887  Miss  Dobree  was  received  into  the  Catholic 
Church,  and  her  books  since  then  have  been :  ••  A  Manual 
of  Home  Nursing,"  "Stories  on  the  Sacraments,"  ••  A 
Seven-Fold  Treasure,"  'Per  Parcel  Post,"  "  A  Tug-of- 
War,"  "  Stories  on  the  Beatitudes,"  ••  Beautiful  Sewing," 
"  Plain  Work,"  etc.  She  is  on  the  staff  and  an  occasional 
contributor  to  twenty  magazines,  the  subjects  on  which  she 
writes  including  home  nursing,  domestic  and  personal  hy- 
giene, etiquette,  character  sketches,  embroidery,  plain  work, 
natural  history,  etc. 

Miss  Dobree  has  lived  a  great  deal  in  the  Channel  Islands, 
France,  and  Ireland,  besides  having  paid  visits,  long  and 
short,  to  Italy,  Switzerland,  Austria,  Belgium,  Germany, 
etc.  The  scenes  of  her  stories  are  constantly  laid  on  the 
continent  of  Europe.  She  lives  now,  as  she  has  done  for 
the  past  nine  years,  at  Chiswick,  near  London. 


BY  LOUISA  EMILY  DOBRIEE. 

In  cockney  parlance  they  had  been  keeping 
company  and  walking  together  for  quite  a  year,  so 
that  when  they  by  mutual  agreement  were  to  be 
formally  engaged  the  bestowal  of  a  ring  was  a  se- 
quence also  decided  upon.  This  ring  is  called  a 
"  dress  ring,"  and  as  a  rule  it  contains  stones  or 
their  imitation  of  some  kind  or  other,  differing  in 
this  from  the  plain  gold  circle  to  which  it  is  one 
day  to  be  a  companion,  provided  of  course  that  the 
course  of  the  engagement  runs  smoothly  and  ter- 
minates in  marriage.  "  They  "  were  two  young 
people  named  severally  Joe  Smith  and  Victoria 
Harris.  He  was  a  tall,  burly  youth  with  better  de- 
veloped muscles  and  air  of  health  than  is  usually 
seen  in  a  London  artisan,  while  she,  a  slight,  small 
narrow-chested  girl,  had  anaemia  writ  large  on  the 
dead  white  face,  pallid  lips,  and  shadowed  eyes.Jihe 
latter  capable  of  various  expressions  gleaming  un- 
der her  "  idiot's  frill  "  of  black  hair,  above  which 
on  this  particular  summer  afternoon  was  set  a 
huge  hat  adorned  with  a  blue  feather  which  had 
swallowed  up  a  large  part  of  her  week's  earnings. 

9 


lO  A   DRESS  RING. 

They  were  on  a  bench  in  a  London  park;  and  the 
fact  that  his  arm  was  not  round  her  waist,  or  her 
head  on  his  shoulder,  due  to  Joe's  inherent  shyness 
and  Victoria's  native  modesty,  somewhat  marked 
them  off  from  the  many  other  lovers  who  here  and 
there  were  in  confused  heaps  and  stolid,  unblushing 
faces  on  which  those  who  ran  might  read  careless 
indifference  to  the  decorum  of  life.  They  were 
genuinely  in  love  with  each  other,  and  as  far  as 
character  went  they  were  as  unlike  as  in  relative 
appearance.  The  little  wisp  of  a  girl,  whose  pert 
tongue  and  peppery  temper  often  made  her  lover 
stare  in  astonishment,  admired  Joe's  quiet,  silent 
ways,  and  felt  that  he  was  a  great  and  safe  support 
to  her.  She  could  tell  him  all  her  troubles  about 
her  drunken  father  who  had  cast  her,  his  only 
motherless  child,  off  when  she  was  fifteen  and  told 
her  to  look  out  for  herself,  and  be  sure  of  a  kind, 
patient  listener  and  one  who  would  try  to  suggest 
some  way  of  helping  the  man  and  who  would  not 
be  too  hard  on  him.  This  won  Victoria's  heart 
and  gave  Joe  in  time  a  large  place  in  it,  for  the  girl 
loved  her  ver}^  worthless  parent  with  strange,  un- 
reasoning tenacity,  and  had  her  lover  attempted  to 
condemn  him  she  would  have  turned  like  an  angry 
cat  upon  him.  And  Joe  liked  Victoria's  quickness, 
thought  her  smart  speech  very  fetching,  and  her 
little  bursts  of  temper  glanced  over  him  when  he 
was  not  astonished  at  them. 

"  I  do  believe  it's  going  to  rine,"  said  Victoria 


LOUISA    EMILY  DOBR&E.  II 

presently,  as  the  sky  suddenly  clouded  over,  and 
there  was  that  stillness  in  the  air  broken  by  the 
twittering  of  birds  which  presages  a  summer 
shower,  "  and  I  haven't  got  no  umbereller,"  and 
she  thought  with  dismay  of  her  hat  and  its  fine 
curly  feather. 

"  I  don't  expect  it  will  be  much,  and  vv^e  might 
get  under  that  there  tree,  it's  got  a  sight  more 
leaves  than  this  one  'as,"  said  Joe,  thinking  that  he 
also  was  umbrella-less  and  that  his  hat  had  been 
freshly  ironed  the  day  before. 

"  All  right,  let's  get  there  then — come,  look 
sharp,"  said  Victoria,  who  was  prompt  in  most 
things  ;  and  the  two  ran  across  to  the  other  bench, 
which  was  well  sheltered  by  a  widely  spreading  tree 
from  the  heavy  shower  which  came  down  then  and 
there  with  no  indecision. 

Both  had  the  same  subject  in  their  minds,  and 
yet  neither  liked  alluding  to  it.  They  each  were 
thinking  of  that  dress  ring  that  lay  in  Joe's  waist- 
coat pocket,  the  bestowal  of  which  both  knew  was 
to  take  place  that  afternoon,  and  the  occasion  of 
the  engagement  of  which  it  was  a  sign  was  at  the 
back  of  the  hat-ironing  and  purchase  of  the 
feather. 

They  were  silent  for  a  few  minutes  as  the  rain 
beat  the  leaves  and  a  few  drops  penetrated  the 
outer  branches  and  fell  on  the  sunburnt  grass. 

Joe  coughed.  He  wished  Victoria  would  refer 
to  the  subject,  and  she,  perfectly  aware  of  the  fact 


12  A    DRESS  RING. 

and  enjoying  his  silent  shyness,  was  determined 
not  to  lead  up  to  it  in  any  way. 

"  Mrs.  Parsons  has  been  that  cross  this  week, 
she've  never  stopped  jawin'  of  us  for  one  thing  or 
another.  My  mate  catched  it  Friday  'cause  she 
scorched  some  of  the  finery — lor',  wasn't  the  fat  in 
the  fire!  "  said  Victoria,  secretly  unbuttoning  her 
left-hand  glove,  which,  of  stiff  kid,  had  cost  one 
and  sixpence  three  farthings,  and  were  desperately 
uncomfortable. 

"  Were  there  ?     Oh— Vickey— I  say." 
"  Yes  ?  "  said  Vickey,  looking,  with  blank  inno- 
cence of  what  he  wanted  to  say,  into  his  honest 
but  rather  stupid  blue  eyes. 

"  I've  got  the  ring,  Vickey,  and  Father 
Wrighton  blessed  it  all  right,"  said  Joe,  coloring 
and  speaking  in  a  low  tone  of  voice. 

"  Oh,  have  yer  ?  "  said  Vickey.  "Let's  see  it, 
then — do  be  quick,  Joe,"  she  added,  for,  now  she 
was  certain  he  had  the  ring,  curiosity  vanquished 
coquetry. 

Joe  fumbled  with  his  big  fingers  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  and  then  withdrew  the  little  card  box 
which  he  then  handed  to  Vickey,  There  lying  in 
the  pink  cotton  was  a  ring  with  three  blue  stones 
in  it.  Vickey's  quick  tongue  for  a  moment  was  si- 
lent, for  she  was  altogether  surprised,  the  ring 
being  so  very  much  better  than  that  which  her 
fancy  painted  Joe  was  likely  to  give  her,  and  he, 
rising  to  the  occasion,  took  it  out  of  its  soft  nest. 


LOUISA    EMILY  DOB  REE.  13 

placed  it  on  her  finger  and,  park  or  no  park,  gave 
Vickey  a  sounding  kiss  as  he  did  so. 

"  Glad  you  like  it,"  said  Joe,  answering  her  un- 
spoken approbation.  "  I  picked  it  out  from  a  lot 
— chose  blue  special,  as  you're  partial  to  the  color." 

"  Yus,  it's  my  fav'rite  color,"  said  Vickey,  who 
liked  blue,  not  only  for  its  own  sake,  but  because 
it  was  Our  Lady's  color,  and  she  was  looking  for- 
ward to  being  a  Child  of  Mary  some  day.  She  had 
worn  the  aspirant's  green  ribbon  for  more  than  a 
year,  and  what  it  and  the  little  medal  had  done  for 
her  in  keeping  her  from  dangerous  paths,  in  check- 
ing that  fiery  temper  of  hers,  in  fortifying  her 
against  the  hundred  or  more  temptations  that 
crowd  round  the  rough  life  of  a  laundry  girl,  she 
and  her  guardian  angels  best  knew. 

"  It's  a  beauty,"  said  Vickey  ;  "  must  ha'  cost  a 
lot." 

Joe  looked  rather  sheepish. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  ain't  stony  broke  yet  along  of  it, 
nor  I  haven't  'ad  to  go  and  see  my  uncle.  Now, 
Vickey,  you'll  kipe  it  on  noight  and  dye  until  I 
puts  on  the  plain  gold  'un,  eh  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  are  a  Sawney  !  Just  to  think  o'  me  a- 
washin'  and  a-scrubbin'  with  that  lovely  ring  on  ! 
Where'd  the  blue  jools  be,  I'd  like  to  know,  if  I 
did  ?  I  reckon  they'd  be  lost  in  the  soap-suds  in 
no  time  if  so  be  as  the  ring  didn't  take  itself  off 
altogether  and  go  down  the  wyste-water  poipes. 
I'll  put  it  on  a  Sundays  and  when  I  gets  out." 


14  A    DI?ESS  RING. 

"  Well,  you  must  do  as  you  loike,"  said  Joe. 

"  That's  about  my  ticket  generally,"  said  Vickey 
coolly,  and  Joe  knew  that  was  true  as  far  as  trifles 
went. 

"  I  picked  you  out  a  nice  one,  now  didn't  I  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I'm  deloighted  with  it." 

"  Now  there's  something  else  as  I've  got 
to " 

"  Give  me  !  "  exclaimed  Vickey,  wondering  if 
Joe  had  added  to  his  gift  by  the  purchase  of  a 
brooch  or  bangle. 

"  Well,  not  to  give  you,  unless  telling  you  news 
is  giving." 

"  Do  come  out  with  it,  then,  quick." 

"  It's  like  this,  Vickey.  I  my  'ave  a  roise  about 
Christmas  toime.  The  guv'nor  was  'intin'  at  it 
and  chafifin'  me  a  bit  about  'avin'  a  young  lydy  and 
thinkin'  o'  settlin'  down.  We'd  rub  along  pretty 
fair  on  the  pye  I'd  'ave  then." 

Vickey  was  silent.  She  was  stirred  to  the  depths 
by  his  words.  Marriage  had  been,  of  course,  in  her 
mind  now  and  then,  but  that  it  might  be  so  near 
and  Joe  her  very  own  "  for  better  for  worse,  for 
richer  for  poorer " — nothing  but  death  to  part 
them!  All  the  "  eternal-womanly  "  shone  in  Vick- 
ey's  face  and  was  the  key  to  the  slightly  quivering 
lips,  the  soft  gentle  tone  in  which  she  answered  at 
length,  "  Where  'ud  we  live  ?  " 

It  sounded  a  commonplace,  matter-of-fact  ques- 
tion, but  Vickey  had  known  no  home  since  the  day 


LOUISA    EMILY  D0BR£E.  1$ 

that  her  father  had  sold  the  furniture  over  her  head 
and  turned  her  Hterally  out  of  doors,  and  one  trem- 
bles to  think  what  might  have  become  of  her  had 
not  Mrs.  Parsons,  the  owner  of  the  laundry  where 
she  worked  by  the  day,  taken  her  in  and  made  her 
live  there.  In  her  rough  way  she  had  been  kind  to 
her,  but  a  home  of  her  own — Vickey  knew  that 
would  be  a  very  different  thing. 

"  There's  a  nice  little  flat  in  the  models,"  said 
Joe,  alluding  to  some  model  lodging-houses  re- 
cently built.  "  You  know  the  ones  I  mean  by  the 
stytion." 

Vickey  nodded. 

"  It  would  be  dreadfully  nice,  Joe." 
"  You'd  marry  me,  then,  supposin'  I   gits  the 
roise  ?  "  inquired  Joe,  who  sometimes  felt  as  if  he 
was  not  quite  sure  of  Vickey. 
"  Yus." 

They  lingered  a  while  in  the  park,  and  the  rain 
was  followed  by  sunshine  and  a  lovely  sky.  Then 
they  sauntered  on  towards  Ansmith,  the  suburb  in 
which  Vickey  lived,  and  reached  the  church  while 
the  bell  still  clanged. 

Joe  sang  in  the  choir,  and  to  Vickey  his  un- 
trained and  somewhat  gruff  bass  was  like  a  voice 
from  heaven,  so  beautiful  did  it  sound  to  her.  Per- 
haps to  the  angelic  choir,  who  knew  it  was  the  sing- 
ing of  a  rough  artisan  who  amid  the  temptations 
of  the  world  was  trying  as  he  best  knew  how  to 


1 6  A   DJiESS  RING. 

live  the  clean  straight  life  of  a  good  Catholic,  the 
harsh  tones  had  music  in  them  ! 

On  Monday  there  was  not  much  to  be  done  in 
the  laundry.  As  a  rule,  Vickey  went  in  the  van  to 
collect  the  clothes,  but  that  day  another  girl  went; 
she  simply  helped  a  little  in  odd  ways  and  did 
not  set  to  work  until  three  o'clock,  when  the  girls 
and  women  who  did  not  live  there  came. 

Vickey  and  the  girl  who  was  her  special  mate 
were  having  tea  together  in  the  sorting-room,  the 
rest  of  the  workers  being  in  the  ironing-room. 

Vickey,  needless  to  say,  was  burning  to  show  her 
new  possession  to  Tilda,  and  the  latter,  when  she 
heard  that  Vickey  had  it,  was  naturally  very  curi- 
ous to  see  it. 

"  Ain't  it  lovely  ?  "  said  Vickey,  slipping  it  out, 
then  holding  out  her  hand  to  show  it  off. 

Tilda  looked  at  it  critically. 

"  It  don't  look  as  good  as  the  one  Bill  give  me." 

"  It's  a  very  good  one,"  said  Vickey,  withdraw- 
ing her  hand  hurriedly.  "  Anyway  I'm  pleased 
with  it." 

"  Tyke  it  off  and  let  me  see  it  better,"  said  Tilda, 
and  Vickey  drew  it  off. 

"  What  are  yer  lookin'  at  ? "  asked  Vickey, 
for  Tilda  was  not  looking  at  the  lovely  stones,  but 
was  peering  inside  the  ring. 

"  No,  I  thought  it  worn't,"  said  Tilda,  in  a  satis- 
fied tone  of  voice.  "  It's  not  a  bit  more  than  noine 
carat  gold." 


LOUISA    EMILY  DOB  REE.  1 7 

"  What's  carrots  got  to  do  with  it  ?  "  asked 
Vickey,  rather  mystified. 

"  It's  something  as  says  how  good  the  gold  is," 
said  Tilda.  "  Bill's  father's  in  the  joollery  tride, 
and  he  knows  all  about  it.  The  one  he  give  me 
was  eighteen  carat  gold,  just  double  as  good  as 
this  here.  Well,  I'm  sorry  for  yer,  Vickey,  for  if 
your  chap  don't  care  for  you  enough  to  give  yer  a 
good  ring,  I  say  he  oughter  be  ashamed  of  hisself. 
It's  downright  mean,  I  call  it.  Can't  you  see  the 
noine  ?  " 

Vickey  silently  took  the  ring,  held  it  up  to  the 
light  and  saw  the  figure  clearly  enough.  To  her 
eyes,  gleaming  now  with  annoyance  she  was  trying 
to  hide,  the  ring  had  lost  all  its  beauty,  and  she  felt 
humiliated  and  made  to  appear  very  small  in  Til- 
da's eyes.  However,  she  said  nothing,  and  did  not 
even  defend  Joe  from  the  imputation  of  not  caring 
for  her,  and  as  the  work-bell  rung  at  that  minute 
to  announce  the  expiration  of  the  tea-hour,  all  fur- 
ther discussion  was  stopped. 

After  work  was  over  Vickey  ran  round  to  a  little 
jeweller's  close  by,  had  the  ring  tested,  and  found 
that  her  last  hope — which  was  that  Tilda  might  be 
mistaken  as  to  the  relative  value  of  the  nine  or 
eighteen — was  wrong.  The  ring  had  been  a  very 
cheap  one  indeed,  and  worth  a  few  shillings  at  the 
outside. 

Tilda  attempted  a  renewal  of  the  subject  in  vain. 
Vickey  would  not  speak  of  it,  and  through  the 


1 8  A    DRESS  RING. 

week  she  fumed  and  fretted  inwardly  to  such  a  de- 
gree that  she  made  herself  thoroughly  miserable. 
With  her  imagination  excited  by  anger,  she  saw 
significance  in  many  things  Joe  had  said  and  done, 
all  tending,  she  nov/  firmly  believed,  to  prove  that 
he  did  not  care  enough  for  her  to  think  her  worth 
a  good  ring,  these  bitter  reflections  completely  ef- 
facing all  other  things  which  showed  that  she  had 
no  reason  to  doubt  his  affection. 

It  was  a  wretched  week.  Vickey  made  mistakes 
in  the  sorting,  scorched  a  baby's  frock,  and  finally 
broke  the  marble  slab  on  which  the  shirt-fronts 
were  ironed  and  brought  up  to  the  regulation  pitch 
of  shininess.  These  things  had  not  a  tranquilliz- 
ing efifect  on  Vickey's  temper,  and  on  her  evening 
out  she  got  a  line  from  Joe  to  say  he  could  not 
come  and  see  her  as  usual.  That  was  the  last 
straw. 

At  last  the  long  week  came  to  an  end,  and  as  it 
poured  with  rain  on  Sunday  afternoon,  there  was 
no  thought  of  going  out,  and  Joe  came  prepared 
for  a  pleasant  time  indoors. 

The  two  could  have  the  parlor  to  themselves, 
as  Mrs.  Parsons,  who  was  tired,  was  lying  down  in 
her  room  and  was  likely  to  be  there  until  tea-time. 

It  was  a  small  prim  room  with  a  coo  table,  in 
the  centre  of  which  were  wax  flowers  under  a  glass 
case  which  reposed  on  a  crochet  mat.  There  was 
a  large  oil  painting  of  the  late  Mr.  Parsons  on  the 
wall,  flanked  by  a  double  row  of  family  photo- 


LOUISA    EMILY  DOBR^E.  I9 

graphs,  and  on  the  chimney  were  shells  and  me- 
morial cards  of  various  kinds. 

"  Bloomin',  I  'ope,  Vickey,"  said  Joe,  as  he  en- 
tered the  room  where  Vickey  was  seated  in  a  stiff 
horsehair-covered  chair. 

Vickey  did  not  answer,  and  Joe  did  not  venture 
on  more  than  a  handshake,  which  on  Vickey's  side 
was  limp. 

"  This  'ere's  for  you,"  said  Vickey,  coming  to  the 
point  at  once  and  handing  Joe  the  box. 

*'  Why,  Vickey — whatever's  up  ?  " 

**  Whatever's  up,  indeed!  Like  your  cheek 
givin'  me  a  ring  what  ain't  worth  'avin'  and  hardly 
gold  at  all  !  If  I  ain't  worth  a  good  ring  I  won't 
have  one  at  all." 

Joe  colored. 

"  'Ow  do  ye  know  it  ain't  good  ?  Who  said 
so  : 

"  I  says  so.  And  I  went  and  'ad  it  seen  at  a 
jooller's.  Yes,  it's  gold,  he  says,  says  he,  but  the 
poorest  kind  almost  as  there  is." 

"  So  you  doubted  of  me,  and  cared  only  for  the 
vallyer  of  the  ring,"  said  Joe,  who,  seldom  stirred, 
could  be  angry  once  in  a  way.  "  Yer  a  nice  one,  I 
must  sye." 

"  Can't  return  the  compliment,"  said  Vickey 
coolly.  "  I  don't  know  'ow  ye  dared  give  me  such 
a  bit  o'  rubbish." 

"  'Tain't  rubbish,"  said  Joe  shortly.  "  It  mayn't 
be  what  you  may  call  a  fust-clarse  ring,  but  it  was 


20  A    DRESS  RING. 

as  good  as  I  could  get  ye,  and  if  you  'ad  cared  fur 
me  you  wouldn't  have  thought  about  it,"  and  Joe 
shut  the  cardboard  cover  down  on  the  poor  little 
ring. 

Vickey  bit  her  lips. 

"  There's  explinyshuns  as  I  could  give  you  just 
to  show  you "  began  Joe. 

"  I  don't  want  non'  o'  yer  explinyshuns — very 
likely  I  didn't  care,"  and  Vickey  shot  a  withering 
glance  in  Joe's  direction.  At  it  Joe  felt  as  if  he 
grew  suddenly  cold,  and  he  repented  of  his  mo- 
mentary anger,  now  that  there  was  no  mistake 
about  Vickey's  serious  displeasure. 

"  No."  exclaimed  Vickey,  "  no,  I  don't  want  ter 
'ear  anything  you  may  have  to  sye.  You've  treated 
me  shimeful.  I  know  now  why  you  didn't  want 
me  to  take  it  off  night  nor  dye,  and " 

"  Do  let  me  speak,"  said  Joe,  who  now  was  all 
too  anxious  to  talk. 

"  I  ain't  a  fool.  When  we've  been  keepin'  com- 
pany all  this  while  for  you  to  give  me  that  ring, 
'ardly  gold  at  all,  but  faked  up  with  some  stufif  they 
calls  carrots,  is  a  downright  insult,  when  you've 
drawed  money  out  of  the  savings  bank — a  fi'-pun 
note,  too  !  " 

Joe  stared  from  sheer  astonishment. 

"  Yes,  my  mate  was  at  the  post-office  the  other 
dye  and  just  behind  you  when  you  got  the  money 
out.     So  it  wasn't  as  you  'adn't  it." 

"  If  you'd " 


LOUISA   EMILY  DOBR&E.  21 

"  No,  I  shan't.  You  don't  come  no  tiles  over 
me,"  said  Vickey,  working  herself  up  more  and 
more,  until  she  was  in  such  a  fury  that  Joe  saw  any 
attempt  at  getting  a  hearing  was  futile.  Although 
he  thought  and  acted  slowly,  he  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  would  come  again  when  she  had  cooled 
down  and  tell  her — well,  what  might  turn  the  ta- 
bles very  considerably. 

"  You  go  off  this  minute.  Get  another  young 
lydy  when  you  like,"  said  Vickey.  "  I  don't  never 
wish  to  see  you  agine  !  "  So  saying,  she  drew  her- 
self up  and  tried  to  look  all  injured  innocence  as 
she  ran  out  of  the  room.  And  throwing  herself 
on  her  bed,  she  sobbed  her  heart  and  her  temper 
out. 

If  the  preceding  week  had  been  unsatisfactory, 
this  one  promised  to  be  worse,  and  after  the  little 
sleep  gained  after  sleepless  hours,  Vickey  woke  to 
the  reality  of  her  misery.  All  the  morning  she 
could  think  of  nothing  else  but  what  had  happened, 
and  she  went  about  with  a  very  white  face.  Her 
companions,  seeing  that  she  was  unhappy  and  find- 
ing that  she  would  not  reveal  the  cause,  left  her 
alone. 

She  wondered  if  Joe  would  really  take  her  at  her 
word,  or  if  he  would  come  as  usual  on  Thursday, 
which  was  early-closing  day  for  him,  and  it  seemed 
to  her  as  if  that  day  was  years  instead  of  but  a  few 
days  distant.       Although  she  was  still  extremely 


22  A    DKESS  RING. 

angry  with  Joe,  the  tempest  had  so  far  passed  that 
she  was  able  to  hear  the  whispers  of  conscience 
and  common  sense.  Both  said  the  same  to  her, 
namely,  that  she  had  been  wrong  to  make  such  a 
fuss,  still  more  foolish  to  quarrel  absolutely  about 
it,  and  unfair  to  Joe  not  to  listen  to  his  explana- 
tions.  Then,  too,  she  remembered  with  unpleas- 
ant distinctness  how  very  good  he  had  always  been 
to  her,  how  patient  with  her  peppery  temper,  how 
forbearing  with  her  sharp  words.  They  had  had  a 
tifif  or  two  ere  now,  but  this  was  the  most  serious 
of  all,  and  by  dinner-time  Vickey  in  her  secret  soul 
began  to  hope  that  Joe  was  not  such  a  fool  as  to 
think  she  really  meant  to  throw  him  up. 

In  the  late  afternoon  Mrs.  Parsons  wanted  some 
soap-jelly,  and  sent  Vickey  for  it.  As  the  girl 
walked  along,  her  thoughts  were  still  so  busy  that 
she  did  not  notice  much  where  she  was  going,  and 
as  she  turned  a  corner  ran  right  against  a  man, 

"  'Olio,  Vickey  !  " 

"  Well,  I  never— father  !  " 

"  Yes,  it's  me,"  said  Mr.  Harris.  "  I  was  goin' 
round  to  yer  plice  to  give  you  a  call." 

"  Well,  I  never  !  "  exclaimed  Vickey,  looking 
her  father  up  and  down  and  wondering  if  the  de- 
cently clad  man  could  be  he.     "  You  are  a  toff  !  " 

Harris  drew  himself  up.  He  had  had  a  shave 
quite  recently,  his  hair  was  well  brushed,  his  clothes 
clean  and  orderly,  and  altogether  he  looked  very 
different  indeed  from  the  sodden-faced,  blear-eyed 


LOUISA    EMILY  DOBREE.  23 

individual  she  had  last  seen  three  months  back 
who  had  come  whining  to  her  for  money  to  spend 
at  the  Three  Feathers. 

"  Yes,"  said  Harris,  pleased  at  the  effect  his  ap- 
pearance was  making  on  Vickey,  "  I've  gone  up  a 
step  or  two,  'aven't  I  ?  " 

Vickey's  face  was  irradiated  with  a  smile.  She 
loved  her  father  dearly  in  spite  of  all,  and  this 
transformation  filled  her  heart  with  joy. 

"  It's  all  along  o'  your  chap,"  said  Harris,  turn- 
ing and  walking  with  Vickey.  "  Wot  d'  yer  think 
he  done  ?  Well,  he's  bin  a-coming  after  me  ever 
since  I  last  seen  yer,  a-persuadin'  o'  me  to  turn 
over  a  new  leaf,  as  the  sayin'  is.  He's  a  persever- 
in'  chap,  I  must  say,  is  Joe,  an'  lawst  week  he  hears 
of  a  situytion  for  me  and  he  gets  me  these  'ere 
clothes  and  fitted  me  out  in  this  style." 

"  And  why  didn't  I  know  on  this  ?  "  asked 
Vickey  quickly. 

"  Well,  it  was  his  secret,  so  to  speak.  Says  he, 
'Don't  let  on  to  Vickey  till  you've  made  a  real  good 
start  and  mean  to  stick  to  it.  She  won't  believe  of 
it  unless  you  do.'  He's  one  of  the  right  sort,  is 
Joe,  and  he  an'  me  is  very  chummy  now,  and  I 
think,  my  girl,  as  you've  done  very  well  for  yerself 
in  gittin'  'im.  We'd  got  it  all  arranged,  as  I  was 
to  call  and  surprise  yer." 

"  Well,  you've  done  that,"  was  all  Vickey  found 
to  say,  and  after  a  little  more  talk  they  parted  at 
the  laundry  door. 


24  A    DEESS  KING. 

Vickey  hardly  knew  how  to  think  collectedly, 
and  as  the  tea-bell  rang  she  ran  up  to  her  room, 
her  brain  full  of  bewildering  thoughts,  her  heart 
rejoicing  over  her  father,  and  aching  with  remorse 
about  Joe  all  the  same. 

"  Hextry    speshul  !     Piper  !     Evenin'   piper  ! 

Terrible  accident  on  the  London  line.     List 

of  killed  and  injured." 

The  shrill  voices  of  the  paper  boys  fell  on  her 
ears,  and  in  a  minute  more  she  had  secured  a  pa- 
per. It  had  rushed  suddenly  to  her  recollection 
that  it  was  on  Joe's  line  of  work  the  accident  had 
occurred.  With  trembling  hands  she  turned  over 
the  pages,  and  among  the  injured  was  "  J.  Smith." 

Vickey  never  knew  how  she  accomplished  that 
journey,  really  a  short  one,  but  apparently  inter- 
minable to  her.  She  had  all  the  quickness  of  the 
born  cockney,  the  familiarity  with  ways  and  means 
of  getting  about,  due  to  having  had  to  look  out  for 
herself  from  early  years  and  being  continually  em- 
ployed as  messenger  for  Mrs.  Parsons. 

At  last  she  reached  the  hospital  where  the  in- 
jured had  been  taken,  and  the  busy  porter  told  her 
she  certainly  might  go  up  to  Alexandra  ward  and 
ask  to  see  No.  15. 

So  Vickey  went  up  the  wide  stone  staircases  and 
along  the  lofty  corridor,  conscious  of  the  strong 
odor  of  carbolic  acid,  the  students  clattering  down 
with  note-books,  the  white-capped  nurses.  There 
was  no  difficulty  about  being  admitted,  and  Vickey 


LOUISA    EMILY  DOB  REE. 


25 


walked  down  the  ward  with  its  speckless  sand-cov- 
ered boards,  its  rows  of  blue-quihed  beds,  its  white 
stoves  on  which  were  pahiis  and  flowers.  The 
long  windows  showed  the  tops  of  many  roofs, 
countless  chimney-pots,  a  few  spires,  and  above  all 
the  burning,  fiery  glow  of  the  sunset,  the  opal 
lights,  the  unearthly  colors, 

Vickey  drew  back  and  clutched  the  nurse's  arm 
as  the  latter  stopped  before  a  screen,  which  told  its 
own  tale. 

"  Is  he  so  bad  as  that  ?  "  she  whispered,  and  the 
nurse  looked  at  her  compassionately. 

Before  she  could  speak  Vickey's  quick  ear 
caught  the  words  spoken  in  low  reverent  tones  by 
the  priest  behind  the  screen: 

"Requiem  ceternam  dona  ci  Domine!" 


M.  E,  FRANCIS. 

Mrs.  Frances  Blundell  (M.  E.  Francis)  is  the  second 
daughter  of  the  late  Michael  James  Sweetman,  of  Lam- 
berton  Park,  Queen's  County,  Ireland.  Her  mother  was 
the  only  daughter  and  heiress  of  Michael  Powell,  of  Fitzwil- 
iiam  Square,  Dublin,  and  Richview,  County  Dublin.  Miss 
Sweetman  was  born  at  Killiney  Park,  County  Dublin,  brought 
up  at  Lamberton  Park,  and  married,  in  1879,  Francis  Nicho- 
las Blundell,  who  died  in  1884. 

After  her  marriage  she  lived  entirely  at  Crosby,  Lan- 
cashire, the  scene  of  the  "  North  Country  Village,"  which  is, 
perhaps,  her  best  known  book. 


One  of  her  sisters  is  Mrs.  Egerton  Castle,  wife  of  tlie 
well-known  litte'rateur .  Another  is  Miss  Elinor  Sweetman, 
whose  "  Palms,"  and  fugitive  pieces,  have  been  singled  out 
by  the  press  for  favorable  notice. 

Miss  Sweetman's  first  printed  tale  was  written  when 
she  was  fourteen,  and  secured  the  distinction  of  being  pub- 
lished through  the  Interest  of  the  Rev.  Matthew  Russell,  S.J., 
editor  of  The  Irish  Monthly,  in  which  journal  a  more 
mature  effort  appeared  in  November,  1879.  Her  first 
long  story,  "  Molly's  Fortunes,"  appeared  in  The  Irish 
Monthly,  and  has  since  been  followed  by  many  others, 
chiefly  sketches  of  Irish  village  life.  "  Whither?  "  her  first 
three-volume  novel,  was  published  in  1892,  followed  after 
an  interval  of  six  months  by  "  In  a  North  Country  Village." 
In  the  spring  of  1894  the  "  Story  of  Dan  "  appeared.  This 
is  a  romance  of  Irish  peasant  life,  and  both  scenes  and 
characters  were  well  known  to  the  author  in  her  childhood. 

That  same  year  "  A  Daughter  of  the  Soil  "  had  the  honor 
of  being  selected  as  the  first  serial  which  was  to  appear  in 
the  weekly  edition  of  The  Times,  and  was  afterwards  pub- 
lished in  book  form.  Since  then  she  has  published  "  Frieze 
and  Fustian,"  a  collection  of  sketches  of  peasant  life  in 
Ireland  and  Lancashire,  and  various  short  stories,  most  of 
which  are  shortly  to  be  re-issued  in  volume  form,  under  the 
title  of  ••  Among  the  Untrodden  Ways." 


IFn  St.  Patrick's  Mart)* 

BY    M.    E.    FRANCIS. 

It  was  intensely,  suffocatingly  hot,  though  the 
windows  on  either  side  of  the  long  room  were  wide 
open;  the  patients  lay  languidly  watching  the  flies 
on  the  ceiling,  the  sunshine  streaming  over  the 
ochre-tinted  wall,  the  flickering  light  of  the  little 
lamp  which  burned  night  and  day  beneath  the  large 
colored  statue  of  St.  Patrick  in  the  centre  of  the 
ward.  It  was  too  hot  even  to  talk.  Granny 
M'Gee — who,  though  not  exactly  ill,  was  old  and 
delicate  enough  to  be  permitted  to  remain  per- 
manently in  the  Union  Infirmary  instead  of  being 
relegated  to  the  workhouse  proper — dozed  in  her 
wicker-chair  with  her  empty  pipe  between  her 
wrinkled  fingers.  Once,  as  she  loved  to  relate, 
she  had  burnt  her  lovely  fringe  with  that  same  pipe 
— "  bad  luck  to  it  !  "  but  she  invariably  hastened 
to  add  that  her  heart  'ud  be  broke  out  an'  out  if  it 
wasn't  for  the  taste  o'  baccy.  Her  neighbor  op- 
posite was  equally  fond  of  snufif,  and  was  usually 
to  be  heard  lamenting  how  she  had  rared  a  fine 
fam'ly  o'  boys  an'  girls  and  how  notwithstanding 

29 


30  IN  ST.    FA  THICK'S    WAFD, 

she  had  ne'er  a  wan  to  buy  her  a  ha'porth  in  her 
ould  age.  Now,  however,  for  a  wonder  she  was 
silent,  and  even  the  woman  nearest  the  door  found 
it  too  hot  to  brandish  her  distorted  wrists  accord- 
ing to  her  custom  when  she  wished  to  excite  com- 
passion or  to  plead  for  alms.  There  would  be  no 
visitors  this  morning;  not  the  most  compassionate 
of  "  the  ladies,"  who  came  to  read  and  otherwise 
cheer  the  poor  sufiferers  of  St.  Patrick's  ward, 
would  venture  there  on  such  a  day. 

The  buzzing  of  the  flies  aforesaid,  the  occasional 
moans  of  the  more  feeble  patients,  the  hurried 
breathing  of  a  poor  girl  in  the  last  stage  of  con- 
sumption were  the  only  sounds  to  be  heard,  except 
for  the  quiet  footsteps  and  gentle  voice  of  Sister 
Louise.  There  was  something  refreshing  in  the 
very  sight  of  this  tall  slight  figure,  in  its  blue-gray 
habit  and  dazzling  white  "  cornette  "  from  beneath 
which  the  dark  eyes  looked  forth  with  sweet  and 
almost  childish  directness.  Sister  Louise  was  not 
indeed  much  more  than  a  child  in  years,  and  there 
were  still  certain  inflections  in  her  voice,  an  elastic- 
ity in  her  movements,  a  something  about  her  very 
hands,  with  their  little  pink  palms  and  dimpled 
knuckles,  that  betrayed  the  fact.  But  those  baby- 
ish hands  had  done  good  service  since  Sister  Louise 
had  left  the  novitiate  in  the  Rue  du  Bac  two  years 
before;  that  young  voice  had  a  marvellous  power  of 
its  own,  and  could  exhort  and  reprove  as  well  as 
soothe  and  console;  and  when  the  blue-robed  fig- 


M.  E.  FRANCIS.  31 

ure  was  seen  flitting  up  and  down  the  ward  smiles 
appeared  on  wan  and  sorrowful  faces,  and  queru- 
lous murmurs  were  hushed.  Even  to-day  the  pa- 
tients nodded  to  her  languidly  as  she  passed, 
observing  with  transitory  cheerfulness  that  they 
were  kilt  with  the  hate,  or  that  it  was  terrible 
weather  entirely.  One  crone  roused  herself  suf- 
ficiently to  remark  that  it  was  a  fine  thing  for  the 
counthry,  glory  be  to  God  !  which  patriotic  senti- 
ment won  a  smile  from  Sister  Louise,  but  failed 
to  awaken  much  enthusiasm  in  any  one  else. 

The  Sister  of  Charity  paused  before  a  bed  in 
which  a  little,  very  thin  old  woman  was  coiled 
up  with  eyes  half  closed.  Mrs.  Brady  was  the 
latest  arrival  at  St.  Patrick's  ward,  having  indeed 
only  "  come  in  "  on  the  preceding  day;  and  Sister 
Louise  thought  she  would  very  likely  need  a  little 
cheering. 

"  How  are  you  to-day,  Mrs.  Brady  ?  "  she  asked, 
bending  over  her. 

"  Why  then  indeed,  ma'am — is  it  ma'am  or 
mother  I  ought  to  call  ye  ?  " 

"  '  Sister ' — we  are  all  Sisters  here,  though  some 
of  the  people  call  Sister  Superior  '  Reverend 
Mother.'  " 

"  Ah,  that  indeed  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Brady,  raising 
herself  a  little  in  the  bed,  and  speaking  with  great 
dignity.  "  Ye  see  yous  are  not  the  sort  o'  nuns 
I'm  used  to,  so  you'll  excuse  me  if  I  don't  alto- 
gether spake  the  way  I  ought.     Our  nuns  down  in 


32  IN  ST.    PATRICK'S    WAPD. 

the  Queen's  County  has  black  veils,  ye  know, 
ma'am — Sisther,  I  mane — an'  not  that  kind  of  a 
white  bonnet  that  you  have  on  your  head." 

"  Well,  do  you  know  our  patients  here  get  quite 
fond  of  our  white  wings,  as  they  call  them,"  re- 
turned Sister  Louise,  smiling.  "  But  you  haven't 
told  me  how  you  are,  yet.  Better  I  hope,  and 
pretty  comfortable." 

A  tear  suddenly  rolled  down  Mrs.  Brady's  cheek, 
but  she  preserved  her  lofty  manner. 

"  Ah,  yes,  thank  ye,  Sisther,  as  comfortable  as  I 
could  expect  in  a  place  like  this.  Of  course  I  niver 
thought  it's  here  I'd  be,  but  it's  on'y  for  a  short 
time,  thanks  be  to  God  !  My  little  boy'll  be  comin' 
home  from  America  soon  to  take  me  out  of  it." 

"  Why,  that's  good  news  !  "  cried  the  Sister 
cheerfully.  "  We  must  make  you  quite  well  and 
strong — that  is,  as  strong  as  we  can" — with  a  com- 
passionate glance,  "  by  the  time  he  comes.  When 
do  you  expect  him  ?  " 

"  Any  day  now,  ma'am — Sisther,  I  mane — aye, 
indeed,  I  may  say  any  day  an'  every  day,  an'  I'm 
afeard  his  heart'll  be  broke  findin'  me  in  this  place. 
But  no  matther  !  " 

Here  she  shook  her  head  darkly,  as  though  she 
could  say  much  on  that  subject,  but  refrained  out 
of  consideration  for  Sister  Louise. 

"  Well,  we  must  do  all  we  can  for  you  mean- 
while," said  the  latter  gently.  "  Have  you  made 
acquaintance  with  your  neighbors  yet  ?    Poor  j\Irs. 


M.  E.  FRANCIS.  33 

M'Evoy  here  is  worse  off  than  yon,  for  she  can't 
Hft  her  head  jnst  now.  Tell  Mrs.  Brady  how  it 
was  you  hurt  your  back,  Mrs.  M'Evoy." 

"  Bedad,  Sisther,  ye  know  yerself  it  was  into  the 
canal  I  feh  wid  a  can  o'  milk,"  said  the  old  woman 
addressed,  squinting  fearfully  in  her  efforts  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  new  patient.  "  The  Bishop 
says  the  last  time  he  come  round,  '  I  s'pose,'  he 
says,  '  ye  were  goin'  to  put  wather  in  the  milk.' 
*  No,'  says  I,  '  there  was  wather  enough  in  it  be- 
fore.' " 

Here  Mrs.  M'Evoy  leered  gleefully  up  at  the 
Sister,  and  one  or  two  feeble  chuckles  were  heard 
from  the  neighboring  beds  ;  but  Mrs.  Brady  as- 
sumed an  attitude  which  can  only  be  described  as 
one  implying  a  mental  drawing  away  of  skirts,  and 
preserved  an  impenetrable  gravity.  Evidently  she 
had  never  associated  with  "  the  like "  of  Mrs. 
M'Evoy  in  the  circles  in  which  she  had  hitherto 
moved. 

"  And  there's  Kate  Mahony  on  the  other  side," 
pursued  Sister  Louise,  without  appearing  to  notice 
Mrs.  Brady's  demeanor.  "  She  has  been  lying 
here  for  seventeen  years,  haven't  you,  Kate  ?  " 

"  Aye,  Sisther,"  said  Kate,  a  thin-faced,  sweet- 
looking  woman  of  about  forty,  looking  up  brightly. 

"  Poor  Kate  !  "  said  the  Sister,  in  a  caressing 
tone.  "  You  must  get  Kate  to  tell  you  her  story 
some  time,  Mrs.  Brady.  She  has  seen  better  days 
like  you." 


34  IN  ST.    PATRICK'S    WARD. 

"  Oh,  that  indeed  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Brady,  distantly 
but  poHtely,  and  with  a  dawning  interest,  "  I  s'pose 
you  are  from  the  country  then,  Hke  meself." 

"  Ah,  no,  ma'am,"  returned  Kate.  "  I  may  say 
I  was  never  three  miles  away  from  town.  I  went 
into  service  when  I  was  on'y  a  slip  of  a  little  girl, 
an'  lived  with  the  wan  lady  till  the  rheumatic  fever 
took  me,  an'  made  me  what  I  am  now.  You're 
not  from  this  town,  I  s'pose,  ma'am." 

"  Indeed,  I'd  be  long  sorry  to  come  from  such 
a  dirty  place — beggin'  your  pardon  for  sayin'  it. 
No,  indeed,  I  am  from  the  Queen's  County,  near 
Mar'boro'.  We  had  the  loveliest  little  farm  there 
ye  could  see,  me  an'  me  poor  husband,  the  Lord 
ha'  mercy  on  his  soul  !  Aye,  indeed,  it's  little  we 
ever  thought — but  no  matther  !  Glory  be  to 
goodness  !  my  little  boy'll  be  comin'  back  from 
America  soon  to  take  me  out  o'  this." 

"  Sure  it's  well  for  ye,"  said  Kate,  "  that  has  a 
fine  son  o'  your  own  to  work  for  ye.  Look  at  me 
without  a  crature  in  the  wide  world  belongin'  to 
me  !  An'  how  long  is  your  son  in  America, 
ma'am  ?  " 

"  Goin'  on  two  year,  now,"  said  Mrs.  Brady, 
with  a  sigh. 

"  He'll  be  apt  to  be  writin'  to  ye  often,  I  s'pose, 
ma'am." 

"  Why  then,  indeed,  not  so  often.  The  poor  fel- 
low he  was  niver  much  of  a  hand  at  the   pen. 


M.  E.  FRANCIS.  35 

He's  movin'  about,  ye  see,  gettin'  work  here  an' 
there." 

Sister  Louise  had  moved  on,  seeing  that  the 
pair  were  hkely  to  make  friends  ;  and  before  ten 
minutes  had  elapsed  each  was  in  possession  of  the 
other's  history.  Kate's,  indeed,  was  simple 
enough ;  her  seventeen  years  in  the  infirmary  being 
preceded  by  a  quiet  life  in  a  very  uninteresting 
neighborhood;  but  she  "  came  of  decent  people," 
being  connected  with  "  the  rale  ould  O'Rorkes," 
and  her  father  had  been  "  in  business  " — two  cir- 
cumstances which  impressed  Mrs,  Brady  very 
much,  and  caused  her  to  unbend  towards  "  Miss 
Mahony,"  as  she  now  respectfully  called  her  new 
acquaintance.  The  latter  was  loud  in  expressions 
of  admiration  and  sympathy  as  Mrs.  Brady  de- 
scribed the  splendors  of  the  past;  the  servant-man 
and  her  servant-maid  who,  according  to  her,  once 
formed  portion  of  her  establishment  ;  the  four 
beautiful  milch-cows  which  her  husband  kept,  be- 
sides sheep,  and  a  horse  and  car,  and  "  bastes  "  in- 
numerable; the  three  little  b'yes  they  buried,  and 
then  Barney — Barney,  the  jewel,  who  was  now  in 
America. 

"  The  finest  little  fella  ye'd  see  between  this  an' 
County  Cork  !  Over  six  fut,  he  is,  an*  wid  a  pair 
o'  shoulders  on  him  that  ye'd  think  'ud  hardly  get 
in  through  that  door  beyant." 

"  Lonneys  !  "  said  Kate  admiringly. 


36  m  ST.    PATRICK'S    WARD. 

"  Aye,  indeed,  an'  ye  ought  to  see  the  beautiful 
black  curly  head  of  him,  an'  eyes  like  sloes,  an' 
cheeks — why  I  declare  " — half  raising  herself  and 
speaking  with  great  animation,  "  he's  the  very 
moral  o'  St.  Patrick  over  there  !  God  forgive  me 
for  sayin'  such  a  thing,  but  raly  if  I  w-as  to  drop 
down  dead  this  minute  I  couldn't  but  think  it  ! 
Now,  I  assure  ye,  j\Iiss  Alahony,  he's  the  very 
image  of  that  blessed  statye,  'pon  me  word  !  " 

IMiss  Alahony  looked  appreciatively  at  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  patron  of  Ireland,  wdiich  was  re- 
markable no  less  for  vigor  of  outline  and  coloring 
than  for  conveying  an  impression  of  exceeding 
cheerfulness,  as  both  the  saint  himself  and  the 
serpent  which  was  wriggling  from  beneath  his  feet 
were  smiling  in  the  most  affable  manner  conceiv- 
able. 

"  Mustn't  he  be  the  fine  boy  !  "  she  ejaculated, 
after  a  pause.  "  I'd  love  to  see  him — but  I'll  niver 
get  a  chanst  o'  that,  I  s'pose.  \\\\\  he  be  comin' 
here  to  see  ye,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  He'll  be  comin'  to  take  me  out  of  it,"  returned 
the  mother.  "  He  doesn't  raly  know  I'm  in  it  at 
all.  I'll  tell  ye  now  the  way  it  is.  AMien  the  poor 
father  died — the  light  o'  heaven  to  him — an'  bad 
times  come,  and  we  had  to  give  up  our  own  beau- 
tiful little  place,  Barney  brought  me  to  town  an' 
put  me  with  Mrs.  Byrne,  a  very  nice  respectal^le 
woman  that  was  married  to  a  second  cousin  o'  my 
poor  husband's,  an'  I  was  to  stop  w'ith  her  till  he 


M.  E.  FRANCIS.  37 

came  back  from  America  with  his  fortune  made. 
Well,"  pursued  Mrs.  Brady,  drawing  in  her  breath 
with  a  sucking  sound,  which  denoted  that  she  had 
come  to  an  interesting  part  of  her  narrative,  "  well, 
he  kep'  sendin'  me  money,  ye  know,  a  pound  or 
maybe  thirty  shillin'  at  a  time — whenever  he  could, 
the  poor  boy,  an'  I  was  able  to  work  the  sewin'- 
machine  a  little,  an'  so  we  made  out  between  us 
till  I  took  this  terrible  bad  turn.  Well,  of  course 
troubles  niver  comes  single,  an'  the  last  letther  I 
got  from  my  poor  little  fella  had  only  fifteen  shillin' 
in  it,  an'  he  towld  me  he  had  the  bad  luck  alto- 
gether, but  says  he,  '  My  dear  mother,  ye  must  on'y 
howld  out  the  best  way  ye  can.  There's  no  work 
to  be  got  in  this  place  at  all  (New  York  I  think 
it  was).  But  I  am  goin'  out  West,'  says  he,  '  to  a 
place  where  I'm  towld  there's  fortunes  made  in  no 
time,  so  I'll  be  over  wid  ye  soon,'  he  says,  '  wid  a 
power  o'  money  an'  I'm  sure  Mary  Byrne  '11  be  a 
good  friend  to  ye  till  then.  The  worse  of  it  is,' 
he  says,  '  it's  a  terrible  wild  outlandish  place,  and  I 
can't  be  promisin'  ye  many  letthers,  for  God  knows 
if  there'll  be  a  post-office  in  it  at  all,'  says  he,  '  but 
I'll  be  thinkin'  of  ye  often,  an'  ye  must  keep  up 
your  heart,'  he  says.  Well,"  sucking  up  her  breath 
again,  "  poor  Mrs.  Byrne  done  all  she  could  for  me, 
but  of  course  when  it  got  to  be  weeks  an'  months 
that  I  was  on  my  back  not  able  to  do  a  hand's  turn 
for  meself,  an'  no  money  comin'  an'  no  sign  o' 
Barney,  what  could  she  do,  poor  cratur  ?    One  day 


38  IN  ST.    PATRICK'S    WARD. 

Dr.  Isaacs  says  to  her,  '  Mrs.  Byrne,'  says  he,  *  why 
don't  ye  send  poor  Mrs.  Brady  to  the  Infirmary  ?  ' 
'  What  Infirmary,  sir  ?  '  says  she.  *  The  Union  In- 
firmary,' says  he,  '  it's  the  on'y  place  she's  fit  for 
except  the  Incurables  in  Dublin,'  says  he,  '  an'  I'm 
afraid  there's  no  chance  for  her  there.  'Oh,docther, 
don't  mention  it  ! '  says  poor  Mrs.  Byrne — she  was 
telling  me  about  it  aftherwards.  '  Is  it  the  Union  ? 
I  wouldn't  name  it,'  she  says,  '  to  a  decent  respect- 
able woman  like  Mrs.  Brady.  She's  a  cousin  by 
marriage  o'  me  own,'  she  says,  '  I  wouldn't  name  it 
to  her,  I  assure  ye.'  '  Just  as  you  please,'  says 
Docther  Isaacs.  '  It  'ud  be  the  truest  kindness 
you  could  do  her  all  the  same,  for  she'd  get  betther 
care  and  nourishment  than  you  could  give  her.' 
Well,  poor  Mrs.  Byrne  kep'  turnin'  it  over  in  her 
mind,  but  she  raly  couldn't  bring  herself  to  men- 
tion it  nor  wouldn't,  on'y  she  was  druv  to  it  at  the 
end,  the  crature,  with  me  bein'  ill  so  long,  an'  the 
rent  comin'  so  heavy  on  her  an'  all.  So  we  settled 
it  between  the  two  of  us  wan  day,  an'  she  passed 
me  her  word  to  bring  me  Barney's  letther — if  e'er 
a  wan  comes — the  very  minute  she  gets  it,  an'  if 
he  comes  himself  she  says  she  won't  let  on  where 
I  am,  all  at  wanst,  but  she'll  tell  him  gradual. 
Sometimes  I  do  be  very  unaisy  in  me  mind,  Miss 
Mahony,  I  assure  ye,  wondherin'  what  he'll  say 
when  he  hears.  I'm  afeared  he'll  be  ready  to  kill 
me  for  bringin'  such  a  disgrace  on  him." 

"  Sure,  what  could  ye  do  ?  "  said  Kate,  a  little 


M.  E.  FRANCIS.  39 

tartly,  for  naturally  enough,  as  "  an  inmate  "  of 
many  years'  standing,  she  did  not  quite  like  her 
new  friend's  insistence  on  this  point.  "  Troth,  it's 
aisy  talkin',  but  it's  not  so  aisy  to  starve.  An' 
afther  all,  there's  many  a  one  that's  worse  off  nor 
us  here,  I  can  tell  ye,  especially  since  the  Sisthers 
come,    God    bless    them,    with    their    holy    ways. 

How'd  ye  like  to  be  beyant  at  the  Union, 

where  the  nurses  gobbles  up  all  the  nourishment 
that's  ordhered  for  the  poor  misfortunate  cratures 
that's  in  it,  an'  leaves  thim  sthretched  from  mornin' 
till  night  without  doin'  a  hand's  turn  for  them. 
Aye,  an'  'ud  go  near  to  kill  them  if  they  dar'd  let 
on  to  the  Docther.  Sure,  don't  I  know  well  how 
it  was  before  the  Sisthers  was  here — we  have  dif- 
ferent times  now,  I  can  tell  ye.  Why,  that  very 
statye  o'  St.  Pathrick  that  ye  were  talkin'  of  a  while 
ago,  wasn't  it  them  brought  it  ?  An'  there's  St. 
Joseph  over  in  the  ward  fornenst  this,  an'  St, 
Elizabeth  an'  the  Holy  IMother  above.  See  that 
now.  Isn't  it  a  comfort  to  be  lookin'  at  them  holy 
things,  and  to  see  the  blessed  Sisthers  come  walkin' 
in  in  the  mornin'  wid  a  heavenly  smile  for  every 
one,  an'  their  holy  eyes  lookin'  into  every  hole  an' 
corner  an'  spyin'  out  what's  wrong  ?  " 

"  Aye,  indeed,"  assented  Mrs.  Brady,  a  little 
faintly,  though,  for  however  grateful  she  might  be, 
and  comfortable  in  the  main,  there  was  a  bitter- 
ness in  the  thought  of  her  "  come  down  "  that 
nothing  could  alleviate. 


40  IN  ST.    PATRICK'S    WARD. 

She  and  her  neighbor  were  excellent  friends  all 
the  same,  and  she  soon  shared  Kate's  enthusiasm 
for  "  the  Sisthers,"  finding  comfort  moreover  in  the 
discovery  that  Sister  Louise  understood  and  sym- 
pathized with  her  feelings,  and  was  willing  to  re- 
ceive endless  confidences  on  the  subject  of  the 
"  little  boy,"  and  to  discuss  the  probability  of  his 
speedy  advent  with  almost  as  much  eagerness  as 
herself. 

But  all  too  soon  it  became  evident  that  unless 
Barney  made  great  haste  another  than  he  would 
take  Mrs.  Brady  "  out  of  "  the  workhouse.  Grim 
death  was  approaching  wnth  rapid  strides,  and  one 
day  the  priest  found  her  so  weak  that  he  told  her  he 
would  come  on  the  morrow  to  hear  her  confession 
and  to  give  her  the  last  Sacraments. 

Not  one  word  did  the  old  woman  utter  in  reply. 
She  lay  there  with  her  eyes  closed  and  her  poor  old 
face  puckered  up,  unheeding  all  Kate  Mahony's 
attempts  at  consolation.  These,  though  well 
meant,  w^ere  slightly  inconsistent,  as  she  now  as- 
sured her  friend  that  indeed  it  was  well  for  her,  and 
asked  who  wouldn't  be  glad  to  be  out  o'  that;  and 
in  the  next  moment  informed  her  that  maybe  when 
she  was  anointed  she  might  find  herself  cured  an' 
out,  as  many  a  wan  had  before  her,  an'  wasn't  it 
well  known  that  them  that  the  priest  laid  his  holy 
hands  on,  as  likely  as  not  took  a  good  turn  im- 
maydiate. 


M.  E.  FRANCIS.  4 1 

Later  on  Sister  Louise  bent  over  Mrs.  Brady 
with  gentle  reassuring  words. 

"  God  knows  best,  you  know,"  she  said,  at  the 
end  of  her  httle  homily,  "  you  will  say,  '  His  will  be 
done,'  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Sure,  Sisther,  how  can  I  ?  "  whispered  Mrs. 
Brady,  opening  her  troubled  eyes,  her  face  almost 
awful  to  look  on  in  its  gray  pallor.  "  How  can  I 
say,  '  His  will  be  done,'  if  I'm  to  die  in  the  work- 
house ?  An'  me  poor  little  boy  comin'  as  fast  as 
he  can  across  the  say  to  take  me  out  of  it,  an'  me 
breakin'  my  heart  prayin'  that  I  might  live  to  see 
the  day  !  An'  when  he  comes  back  he'll  find  the 
parish  has  me  buried.  Ah,  Sisther,  how  am  I  to  re- 
sign meself  at  all  ?  In  the  name  o'  God  how  am 
I  to  resign  meself  ?  " 

The  tears  began  to  trickle  down  her  face,  and 
Sister  Louise  cried  a  little  too  for  sympathy,  and 
stroked  Mrs.  Brady's  hand,  and  coaxed  and  cajoled 
and  soothed  and  preached  to  the  very  best  of  her 
ability;  and  at  the  end  left  her  patient  quiet  but  ap- 
parently unconvinced. 

It  was  with  some  trepidation  that  she  ap- 
proached her  on  the  morrow.  Mrs.  Brady's  at- 
titude was  so  unusual  that  she  felt  anxious  and 
alarmed.  As  a  rule  the  Irish  poor  die  calmly  and 
peacefully,  happy  in  their  faith  and  resignation  ; 
but  this  poor  w^oman  stood  on  the  brink  of  eternity 
with  a  heart  full  of  bitterness,  and  a  rebellious  will. 


42  IN  ST.    PATRICK'S    WARD. 

Mrs.  Brady's  first  words,  however,  reassured 
her, 

"  Sisther,  I'm  wilHii'  now  to  say,  '  His  will  be 
done.'  " 

"  Thank  God  for  that,"  cried  Sister  Louise 
fervently. 

"Aye.  Well,  wait  till  I  tell  ye.  In  the  night,  when 
I  was  lying  awake,  I  took  to  lookin'  at  St.  Pathrick 
beyant,wid  the  little  lamp  flickerin'  an'  flickerin'  an' 
shinin'  on  his  face,  an'  I  thought  o'  Barney,  an'  that 
I'd  niver  see  him  agin,  an'  I  burst  out  cryin'.  '  Oh, 
St.  Pathrick  !  '  says  I,  '  how'll  I  ever  be  able  to 
make  up  my  mind  to  it  at  all  ?  '  An'  St.  Pathrick 
looked  back  at  me  rale  wicked.  An'  '  oh,'  says  I, 
again,  '  God  forgive  me,  but  sure  how  can  I  help 
it  ?  '  An'  there  was  St.  Pathrick  still  wid  the  cross 
look  on  him  p'intin'  to  the  shamrock  in  his  hand,  as 
much  as  to  say  '  there  is  but  the  wan  God  in  three 
divine  Persons,  an'  Him  ye  must  obey.'  So  then  I 
took  to  baitin'  me  breast  an'  sayin',  'the  will  o'  God 
be  done  ! '  an'  if  ye'll  believe  me,  Sisther,  the  next 
time  I  took  heart  to  look  at  St.  Pathrick  there  he 
was  smilin'  for  all  the  world  the  moral  o'  poor 
Barney.  So,  says  I.  '  afther  that  ! '  Well,  Sisther, 
the  will  o'  God  be  done  !  He  knows  best,  Sisther 
alanna,  doesn't  He  ?  But,"  with  a  weak  sob, 
"  my  poor  little  boy's  heart  'ill  be  broke  out  an'  out 
when  he  finds  I'm  afther  dyin'  in  the  workhouse  !  " 

"  We  must  pray  for  him,"  said  the  Sister  softly; 
"  you  must  pray  for  him  and  ofTer  up  the  sacrifice 


M.  E.  FRANCIS.  43 

that  God  asks  of  you,  for  him.  Try  not  to  fret  so 
much.  Barney  would  not  Hke  you  to  fret.  He 
would  grieve  terribly  if  he  saw  you  like  this." 

"  Heth,  he  would,"  said  Mrs.  Brady,  sobbing 
again. 

"  Of  course  he  would.  But  if  he  heard  you  were 
brave  and  cheerful  over  it  all,  it  would  not  be  half 
so  bad  for  him." 

Mrs.  Brady  lay  very  quiet  after  this,  and  seemed 
to  reflect. 

When  the  priest  came  presently  to  administer 
the  Sacraments  of  the  dying  to  her,  she  roused  her- 
self and  received  them  with  much  devotion  ;  and 
presently  beckoned  Sister  Louise  to  approach. 

"  Sisther,  when  Barney  comes  axin'  for  me,  will 
ye  give  him  me  bades  an'  the  little  medal  that's 
round  me  neck,  an'  tell  him  I  left  him  me  blessin' — 
will  ye,  dear  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  will." 

"  God  bless  ye.  An'  tell  him,"  speaking  with 
animation  and  in  rather  louder  tones.  "  Tell  him 
I  didn't  fret  at  all,  an'  died  quite  contint  an'  happy 
an' — an'  thankful  to  be  in  this  blessed  place  where  I 
got  every  comfort.  Will  ye  tell  him  that,  Sisther 
alanna  ?  " 

The  Sister  bowed  her  head:  this  time  she  could 
not  speak. 

It  was  nearly  two  months  afterwards  that  Sister 
Louise  was  summoned  to  the  parlor  to  see  "  Mr. 


44  I^  'S'2".    PATRICK'S    WARD. 

Brady  "  who  had  recently  arrived  h-om  America, 
and  to  whom  his  cousin,  Mrs.  Byrne,  had  broken 
the  news  of  his  mother's  death. 

Sister  Louise  smiled  and  sighed  as  she  looked  at 
this  big,  strapping,  prosperous-looking  young  fel- 
low, and  remembered  his  mother's  description  of 
him.  The  black  eyes  and  curly  hair  and  rosy 
cheeks  were  all  there,  certainly,  but  otherwise  the 
likeness  to  "  St.  Patrick  '"  was  not  so  very  marked. 

"  Mr.  Brady  wants  to  hear  all  about  his  poor 
mother.  Sister,"  said  the  Sister  Superior.  "  This 
is  Sister  Louise,  Mr.  Brady,  who  attended  your 
poor  mother  to  the  last." 

Mr.  Brady,  who  seemed  a  taciturn  youth,  rolled 
his  black  eyes  towards  the  newcomer  and  waited 
for  her  to  proceed. 

Very  simply  did  Sister  Louise  tell  her  little  story, 
dwelling  on  such  of  his  mother's  sayings,  during 
her  last  illness,  as  she  thought  might  interest  and 
comfort  him. 

"  There  are  her  beads,  and  the  little  medal, 
which  she  always  wore.  She  left  them  to  you  with 
her  blessing." 

Barney  thrust  out  one  large  brown  hand  and  took 
the  little  packet,  swallowing  down  what  appeared 
to  be  a  very  large  lump  in  his  throat. 

"  She  told  me,"  pursued  the  Sister  in  rather 
tremulous  tones,  "  to  tell  you  that  she  did  not  fret 
at  all  at  the  last,  and  died  content  and  happy.     She 


M.  E.  FRANCIS.  45 

did,  indeed,  and  she  told  me  to  say  that  she  was 

thankful  to  be  here " 

But  Barney  interrupted  her  with  a  sudden  in- 
credulous gesture,  and  a  big  sob.  "  Ah,  whisht, 
Sisther  !  "  he  said. 


THEO.  GIFT. 

Dorothy  Boulger  (Theo.  Gift)  is  the  second  daughter 
of  the  late  Thomas  Havers,  Esq.,  of  Thelton  Hall,  Norfolk, 
and  is  descended  from  a  long  race  of  Catholic  ancestors.  In 
1854  Theo.  Gift's  father  became  manager  of  the  Falkland 
Islands,  in  which  remote  and  desolate  colony  she  and  her 
brothers  and  sisters  passed  seven  years  of  their  childhood. 

In  1861  the  family  left  the  Falkland  Islands  for  Monte 
Video,  the  capital  of  Uruguay,  where  they  remained  until  the 
death  of  Mr.  Havers,  in  1870,  which  brought  his  children 
back  to  England.  It  was  then  that  his  second  daughter 
began  her  literary   life    in  earnest.      "Theo.   Gift's"  first 


published  stories  appeared  in  The  Galaxy,  New  York,  and 
she  became  almost  immediately  a  regular  contributor  to  that 
magazine.  Very  soon,  however,  after  her  arrival  in  England 
she  managed  to  obtain  a  name  and  a  footing  for  herself  in  the 
English  magazines,  Her  first  three-volume  novel,  "  True  to 
Her  Trust,"  was  published  anonymously,  but  was  quickly  fol- 
lowed by  "  Pretty  Miss  Bellew,"  which  ran,  first  of  all,  as  a 
serial  in  CasselTs  Magazine,  and  was  the  book  which  made 
her  name.  It  was  followed  by  "  More  than  a  Woman's 
Love."  a  serial  story,  which  appeared  in  The  Lamp  under  the 
editorship  of  the  Rev.  William  Lockhart,  and  "  Maid 
Ellice."  These  were  succeeded  by  "  Visited  on  the  Chil- 
dren," "  A  Matter  of  Fact  Girl,"  "  Lil  Lorimer,"  •'  A  Gar- 
den of  Girls,"  "  Victims,"  and  "  Dishonored,"  among  three- 
volume  novels,  and  "  An  Innocent  Maiden,"  and  "  Not  for 
the  Night  Time,"  one  volume  each,  and  "  The  Little  Colo- 
nists "  and"Cape  Town  Dickey,"  books  for  children;  be- 
sides an  enormous  number  of  short  stories,  sketches,  essays 
and  poems. 

In  1879  "Theo.  Gift  "  married  Professor  Boulger,  the 
well-known  botanist  and  geologist,  and  author  of  many  scien- 
tific works.  Her  marriage  was  followed  shortly  afterwards 
by  a  very  severe  illness,  which  laid  the  seeds  of  her  almost 
continuous  ill-health,  and  compelled  her  to  cease  writing 
altogether  for  a  time  and  to  take  entire  rest  from  all  literary 
labors.  Since  then,  indeed,  she  has  only  published  three 
books — "An  Island  Princess."  "Wrecked  at  the  Outset," 
and  "  Fairy  Tales  from  the  Far  East,"  besides  contributing 
occasional  short  stories  to  various  magazines  and  journals 
of  the  day. 


H  SolMcr's  Mite, 

BY    THEO.    GIFT. 

CHAPTER  I. 

IRISH    MARY. 

A  SCORCHING  summer's  day  in  India.  Not  a 
day  like  those  we  get  in  the  "  merry  month  of 
May  "  in  England,  but  a  day  when  the  thermome- 
ter is  95  degrees  in  the  shade;  when  the  sun  beats 
down  with  a  hot,  white  flame  out  of  a  Avhite-hot 
sky;  when  the  atmosphere  is  like  the  breath  of  an 
oven,  scorching  up  the  leaves  on  the  trees  and  the 
very  blood  in  your  veins.  Not  a  breath  of  wind, 
not  a  blade  of  grass,  not  a  green  leaf,  only  the 
dusky  palm-trees  standing  up  like  shafts  of  heated 
iron  against  the  glaring  sky;  only  the  glaring  white 
of  the  road  winding  away  into  the  far  interior,  the 
more  glaring  whiteness  of  the  dome  of  an  isolated 
mosque  set  in  a  tuft  of  trees,  and  the  low,  red  brick 
walls  of  the  "  station  "  glowing  like  fire  in  the  sun- 
beams ! 

It  was  in  the  early  days  of  the  Mutiny,  those  aw- 
ful days  of  reckoning  which  wrote  their  judgment 

49 


50  A    SOLDIER'S    WIFE. 

in  letters  of  blood  on  a  nation  too  proud  to  be 
prudent,  and  too  wealthy  to  be  wise.  Already  the 
revolt  had  begun.  The  Sepoy  regiments  at  Meerut 
had  risen  simultaneously  on  a  quiet  Sunday  after- 
noon and  butchered  officers,  women,  and  children 
in  one  indiscriminate  slaughter.  At  Barrackpore 
and  Umballa,  and  a  score  of  other  places  in  the 
presidency,  native  detachments,  and,  in  some  cases, 
whole  regiments,  had  mutinied,  here  and  there 
massacring  their  white  comrades  and  officers,  and 
marching  off  in  triumph,  here  and  there  overcome 
by  the  superior  force  of  the  English.  Delhi  itself, 
the  mighty  capital  of  the  East,  was  invested.  A 
few  days  more,  and  it  was  to  fall  with  a  stupendous 
crash,  a  stream  of  blood  and  ruin  which  was  to 
overwhelm  the  army  of  India  with  an  agony  of 
horror  beyond  all  vengeance. 

And  yet  the  Indian  Government  looked  on 
calmly,  unbelieving  that  these  numerous  outrages 
and  risings  were  anything  but  isolated  acts  of  in- 
subordination; and  while  in  one  town  English  offi- 
cers were  being  blown  from  the  guns,  and  English 
women  crucified  in  horrible  imitation  of  their 
Lord  against  the  city  walls,  their  countrymen  and 
countrywomen  in  another,  not  many  leagues  dis- 
tant, were  leading  the  usual  pleasant,  languid  In- 
dian life,  ignorant  of  what  was  happening,  or 
utterly  incredulous  that  the  like  fate  might  at  any 
hour  descend  upon  themselves. 

Even  at  little  Futterhabad,  a  small  government 


THEO.  GIFT.  51 

depot  occupied  by  two  companies  of  the  Sixth,  and 
a  battahon  of  native  foot,  under  Captains  Donald- 
son and  Clare,  they  were  all  unconscious  of  any 
danger  awaiting  themselves  till,  two  days  before, 
a  messenger  from  the  officer  in  command  at  the 
neighboring  town  of  Susi  informed  Captain  Don- 
aldson that  some  of  the  Sepoys  there  had  raised 
cries  of  disaffection  and  refused  to  obey  orders, 
that  the  English  garrison  was  as  yet  strong  enough 
to  keep  them  under,  but  that  a  large  body  of 
mutineers  were  reported  as  marching  on  the  place, 
and  the  officers  of  the  Sixth  were  implored  to  start 
Vv'ith  all  speed,  and  so  intercept  these  latter,  as,  were 
they  once  to  coalesce  with  the  disaffected  within 
the  walls,  the  lives  of  the  English  one  and  all  would 
in  all  probability  be  the  sacrifice.  No  time  was 
lost  in  complying  with  the  appeal  contained  in  this 
dispatch  ;  and  the  senior  captain  (Donaldson) 
thought  himself  showing  extraordinary  prudence 
in  deciding  not  to  take  the  native  battalion  with 
them. 

"  Not  but  that  I  believe  our  fellows  to  be  as  true 
as  steel,  but  it'll  be  acting  on  the  safe  side  not  to 
excite  them  by  leading  them  against  their  old  com- 
rades," he  said,  and  Captain  Clare  agreeing,  the 
regiment  marched  out  of  Futterhabad  an  hour 
before  sundown,  leaving  behind  it,  besides  the 
soldiers'  wives  and  children  and  the  civilians,  an 
English  sergeant  and  ten  men  to  overawe  (?)  the 
native  troops;  as  also  the  young  wife  of  Captain 


52  A    SOLDIER'S    WIFE. 

Clare,  who  had  become  a  mother  only  a  fortnight 
back. 

She  was  not  within  the  cantonment.  The  over- 
powering heat  of  the  town  had  affected  her  so  un- 
favorably in  her  state  of  health  that  her  husband 
had  removed  her  to  a  deserted  mosque  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  distant  from  the  depot,  which, 
standing  in  a  garden  thickly  overgrown  with  palm 
and  tulip  trees,  made  a  pleasant  sort  of  improvised 
bungalow  for  the  invalid. 

The  change  had  agreed  with  her  wonderfully  ; 
and  when  Captain  Clare  suggested  that  she  should 
be  moved  back  to  the  cantonment  during  his  ab- 
sence, she  refused,  declaring  she  would  remain 
where  she  was. 

"  You  expect  to  be  back  in  thirty-six  hours," 
she  said.  "  What  good  is  there  in  my  making  my- 
self uncomfortable  for  so  short  a  time  ?  " 

And  Captain  Clare  left  her,  believing  that  there 
was  no  reason  for  his  doing  otherwise. 

The  fierce  day  had  faded  into  evening  at  last,  the 
evening  of  the  day  after  his  departure,  and  Mrs. 
Clare  lay  on  her  couch,  her  ayah  squatted  on  the 
floor  beside  her,  with  the  infant  in  her  arms,  and 
the  punkah  waving  with  monotonous  regularity 
over  her  head.  The  croaking  of  the  frogs  could  be 
heard  distinctly  from  the  pool  in  the  deserted  gar- 
den below,  mingling  with  the  sharp  "cheep,  cheep" 
of  the  lizards,  and  an  occasional  murmur  from  the 
cantonment;  but  it  was  not  to  those  sounds  that 


THEO.   GIFT.  53 

Mrs.  Clare  was  listening  as  she  leaned  forward  on 
her  elbow  and  looked  out  through  the  narrow, 
arched  window,  from  which,  for  more  air,  the 
matted  curtain  had  been  drawn  aside. 

"  What  can  it  be  ?  "  she  said  at  last.  "  Don't 
you  hear  it,  Zeena  ?  " 

"  Hear  what,  mem-sahib  ?  "  and  the  ayah  ceased 
her  rocking  and  crooning  over  the  babe  to  look 
up. 

"  Just  now  there  was  such  a  strange  noise  from 
the  cantonment.     Can  it  be  the  Sixth  returning  ?  " 

"  The  mem-sahib  is  feverish.  Zeena  hear  nos- 
sing  at  all;  and  de  Sahib  Clare  and  de  Sixth  not 
go  to  come  back  till  to-morrow." 

"  But  we  were  to  have  heard  from  them  to-day 
and  there  has  been  no  message.  Can  anything 
have  happened,  or — there,  Zeena,  you  must  hear 
thatr 

"  That  "  was  audible  enough  indeed,  a  cry  from 
the  cantonment,  something  between  a  shriek  and  a 
shout,  and  followed  by  a  confused  hum  of  many 
voices. 

"Soldier  got  'bhang' — drunk — mad,"  said  Zeena 
lazily.     "  Sergeant  put  him  in  black-hole." 

"  It  is  news  of  some  sort  from  the  regiment. 
Ah,  how  cruel  of  them  not  to  send  to  me  !  Zeena, 
give  me  the  baby  and  run  up  to  the  cantonment 
and  see  what  it  is.  Make  haste  !  "  And  as  the 
lady  clapped  her  hands  impatiently,  Zeena  rose, 
and  only  waiting  to  lay  the  infant  by  its  mother. 


54  A    SOLDIER'S    WIFE. 

sped  swiftly  through  the  low,  arched  doorway  and 
disappeared  into  the  night. 

Left  alone  IMrs.  Clare's  anxiety  increased.  The 
strange  rolling  sound  was  now  plainly  distinguish- 
able for  the  measured  tramp  of  soldiers;  and  that 
some  great  excitement  was  going  on  at  the  canton- 
ment was  more  and  more  evident.  Once  a  shrill 
cry  rose  faintly  into  the  air.  Then  came  the  sharp 
clang  of  a  bell  as  suddenly  suppressed,  and  yet  no 
thought  of  danger  there  or  to  herself  crossed  her 
mind.  Her  fears  were  entirely  with  the  Sixth  and 
the  husband  who  had  marched  away  at  their  head. 
Could  it  be  that  they  were  coming  back  defeated, 
and — without  him  ?  Had  no  one  courage  to 
break  the  news  to  her  ?  Twice  she  called  aloud 
to  the  other  servants,  but  there  was  no  answer. 
Even  the  punkah  has  ceased  to  wave  for  the  last 
few  minutes. 

A  step  roused  her.  A  quick,  noisy  step  coming 
nearer  every  moment.  Was  it  her  husband  ?  No, 
that  was  no  military  tread;  but  a  woman's,  and  one 
flying  up  the  garden-walk  with  frantic,  almost 
clumsy  haste;  another  moment  and  the  heavy  cur- 
tain draping  the  doorway  was  torn  aside,  and  a 
figure  panting  with  excitement  stood  in  the  en- 
trance. 

A  young  woman  with  a  sunburnt,  freckled  face 
hung  round  with  tangled,  reddish  elf-locks,  her  bare 
arms  hugging  something  like  a  dingy  bundle  of 
rags  to  her  bosom,  herself  clad  in  rags  of  divers  hues 


THEO.   GIFT.  55 

badly  covered  by  an  old  plaid  cloak, — such  was  the 
intruder  who  thrust  herself  into  Mrs.  Clare's  pres- 
ence: a  girl,  nicknamed  "  Irish  Mary,"  wife  to  a 
soldier  in  the  Sixth,  but  not  "  on  the  strength." 

She  seemed  beside  herself  now,  for  after  that  one 
pause  for  breath  she  darted  to  the  couch  where  the 
pretty  patrician  lady  lay  in  her  white  draperies,  and 
exclaimed  in  tones  hoarse  with  excitement:  "  Tvlrs, 
Clare,  dear,  is  it  lyin'  here  ye  are,  as  if  nothin'  were 
doin'  !     Get  up  and  fly  for  the  love  of  heaven." 

"  Fly  !  Where  ?  From  what  ?  "  cried  Mrs. 
Clare,  her  indignation  at  the  intrusion  lost  in  as- 
tonishment as  the  other,  having  deposited  her 
bundle  on  the  bed,  almost  lifted  her  on  to  her  feet. 

"  From  murther  an'  slaughterin',  an'  worse  a 
million  times  to  the  like  o'  you  an'  me  !  "  Mary- 
cried,  her  rough  hands  busy  in  thrusting  Mrs. 
Clare's  little  bare  feet  into  a  pair  of  shoes,  and 
flinging  a  dark  cloak  which  happened  to  come 
handy  over  her  muslin  wrapper.  "  Shure  an'  aren't 
the  Sepoy  divils  afther  enterin'  the  depot,  an'  our 
soldiers  drugged  aforehant,  an'  no  shot  fired  to 
stay  them  !  Och  !  bad  cess  to  the  thraitorous 
scoundhrels  that  let  'em  in  !  Hark  to  thim,  dear  ! 
There's  a  cry  !  Och  !  hurry,  hurry,  as  ye're  a 
livin'  woman.  There'll  not  be  wan  alive  an  hour 
hence  ;  nor  we  ail  her  if  we're  not  gone  from 
here." 

There  was  a  desperate  earnestness  in  the  girl's 
eyes,  but  Mrs.  Clare  tried  to  resist. 


5^  A    SOLDIER'S    WIFE. 

"  The  Sepoys  here  !  "  she  stammered.  "  Do 
you  mean  our  battahon  has  risen  ?  " 

''  An'  have  let  in  a  couple  of  hundhred  more  at 
laste.  Shure,  an'  wasn't  I  afther  hearin'  the  thread 
of  them  as  they  cum  up  the  road  !  Misthress,  dear, 
for  God's  sake  don't  stan'  there.  There  was  wan 
of  ours  as  wasn't  drugged,  Sergeant  McCann  he 
was,  an'  the  thing  I  stumbled  over  at  the  gate  was 
the  dead  body  of  him  hacked  thro'  an'  thro'. 
Shure  an'  I  niver  stayed  till  I  got  here;  for  I  knew 
'twas  in  yer  bed  ye  were,  an'  none  to  purtect  ye." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Clare  faintly,  and  very 
pale,  "  but  go  yourself;  Captain  Clare  will  be  back 
in  a  few  hours  now  if  he  be  alive,  and  if  not,  I — I 
would  rather  die  here." 

"  Die  is  it  ?  "  cried  Mary  contemptuously,  "  an' 
d'  ye  think  it's  I  would  be  afther  fearin'  death  if 
that  was  all  ?  Or  d'  ye  think  it's  betther  for  the 
captain  to  fin'  you  a  slave  to  the  black  haythens,  an' 
yer  child's  brains  dashed  out  on  the  stones,  as  they 
did  wid  the  childher  at  Meerut  ?  Missis  dear,  Vm 
flyin'  for  Jim's  sake  an'  me  boy's  here,  an'  I'm  not 
goin'  widout  you;  for  the  captain's  been  good  an' 
kind  to  Jim,  an'  thrated  meself  like  the  dacent 
wedded  wife  as  I  am  (even  if  I'm  not  on  the 
sthringth).  Come,  ma'am,  hurry  !  Ye'll  walk 
betther  by  yersel'  than  if  ye  were  tied  to  a  gun  an' 
dhriven.  Here,  take  hould  of  that  shawl  while  I 
rowl  the  childher  together.  I'll  carry  them,  an' 
you  kape  close  to  me.     This  way — so  !  " 


THEO.   GIFT.  57 

And  Mrs.  Clare  made  no  more  resistance,  but 
followed  with  the  meekness  of  a  child  in  her  foot- 
steps. 

What  a  sight  met  her  as  they  crept  from  out  of 
that  vaulted  temple  into  the  night  air  !  The  east- 
ern sky  was  red  as  blood  from  the  blazing  roof  of 
her  own  house  in  the  officers'  quarters;  and  in  that 
scarlet  light  she  could  see  the  hillside  and  the  walls 
of  the  cantonment  dotted  over  with  black  figures, 
while  the  whole  air  seemed  alive  and  quivering  with 
a  turmoil  of  shrieks,  cries,  and  yells  of  agony  or 
triumph. 

One  look  was  sufficient  ;  and  then  Gertrude 
Clare  cowered  closer  to  the  side  of  the  Irish  girl, 
and  clung  to  her,  murmuring  :  *'  We  shall  never 
escape  !     What  hope  is  there  ?  " 

"  P'oller  me,  or  it'll  be  thrue  for  ye,"  Mary  mut- 
tered in  curt  response,  as  she  dived  into  a  dense 
thicket  of  prickly-pear  and  jungle-grass,  trampling 
a  path  in  front  with  her  strong  feet,  and  leaving 
many  a  fragment  of  her  ragged  garments  on  the 
thorny  boughs,  yet  never  suffering  a  touch  to  dis- 
turb the  sturdy,  brown-skinned  eight-months' 
baby,  or  the  tiny  infant  of  scarce  twice  as  many 
days,  which  she  carried  so  tenderly  in  her  right 
arm. 

By  and  by  Mrs.  Clare  stopped.  They  had  not 
gone  a  couple  of  hundred  yards,  but  she,  poor  girl, 
was  faint  and  exhausted  by  the  rough  walking. 
Yet  "  Mary,"  she  said,  "  they  will  be  on  the  return 


58  A    SOLDIER'S    WIFE. 

march,  and  see  the  blaze.  It  will  bring  them  up  all 
the  quicker,  and  if  he  finds  me  gone — oh  !  God,  I 
know  my  husband — he  will  fling  away  his  life  in 
the  effort  to  tear  me  from  among  his  enemies,  and 
I — I  shall  not  be  there." 

"  Wid  God's  blessin'  ye  won't  indade  !  "  said 
Mary  solemnly,  "  an'  niver  throuble  yersel'. 
They're  not  returnin'  as  yet,  at  all,  at  all.  I  heerd 
them  black  naygurs  talkin'  ov't  as  I  crouched 
down  in  the  scrub  yonder;  an'  the  half  of  them  had 
parted  off  to  meet  the  Sixth  an'  delay  thim  outside 
Susi  till  the  lave  o'  thim  had  got  all  they  wanted 
here." 

"  Where  are  we  going  then,  Mary  ?  If  they  are 
bent  on  destroying  Captain  Clare  and  the  Sixth, 
where  is  the  use  of  our  saving  ourselves  ?  " 

"  Desthroy  the  Sixth,  is  it  ?  A  pack  o'  dhurty 
rebels  ! "  cried  Mary  scornfully.  ''  Shure,  an' 
they've  more  thrust  in  the  masther  an'  his  men 
than  yersel'.  It's  not  hopin'  to  stay  thim  more 
than  an  hour  or  two  they  are,  but  " — and  Mary's 
brown  face  paled  and  Gertrude  Clare  shuddered,  as 
she  added — "  Misthress  dear,  I  heerd  wan  say, 
'  Work  yer  wull  for  to-night,  but  take  none  wid  ye 
whin  ye  go,  not  a  livin'  soul,  man  nor  woman,'  an' 
I  blessed  Our  Lord  that  I'd  larnt  enough  o'  their 
lingo  to  understan'.  Ask  the  great  God  to  kape 
ye  out  ov  their  ban's,  and  come  on  now.  We've 
no  time  to  lose." 

She  hurried  on  as  she  spoke,  and  Gertrude  fol- 


THEO.   GIFT.  59 

lowed  feebly,  trembling  in  every  limb,  but  striving 
with  uncomplaining  resolution  to  keep  in  her  com- 
panion's footsteps.  Did  not  the  shrieks  of  those 
then  weltering  in  their  blood  within  the  walls  of 
Futterhabad  cry  to  them  to  haste  for  life  or  death; 
for  more  than  life,  from  worse  than  death,  away  ! 
at  all  speed,  away  ! 

On  and  on,  tearing  their  feet  and  hands,  stoop- 
ing their  heads  low,  praying  inwardly  the  whole 
time,  they  struggled  for  half  an  hour,  the  Irish  girl 
walking  with  the  firm,  elastic  tread  of  one  well  used 
to  the  march,  the  English  one  staggering  after  with 
a  step  momentarily  slacker  and  more  uncertain, 
until  they  found  themselves  on  the  edge  of  a  large 
field  of  Indian  corn, — and  then,  as  Mary  stooped 
lower  with  her  burden,  that  her  head  might  not 
show  above  the  tall  green  stalks,  Mrs.  Clare 
gasped  out: 

"  Go  on.  Save  yourself.  I — can  do  no  more," 
and  fainted  away  at  her  humble  friend's  feet.  At 
the  same  moment  the  latter's  baby  set  up  a  piteous 
wail. 

Half  beside  herself,  Mary  crouched  down,  hush- 
ing her  baby  to  her  breast  with  one  hand,  while 
with  the  other  she  loosened  the  fainting  woman's 
dress  and  turned  her  face  upwards  that  the  night 
air  might  refresh  her.  She  could  do  no  more. 
There  was  not  a  drop  of  water  near  to  moisten  the 
lips  already  black  and  parched,  but  when  her  child 
had  fallen  asleep  again,  she  laid  both  babes  down 


6o  A    SOLDIER'S    WIFE. 

by  Mrs.  Clare  and  crept  on  hands  and  knees  to  a 
little  eminence  where  she  could  have  a  view  of  their 
surroundings. 

Poor  Gertrude  !  She  was  roused  from  her  merci- 
ful stupor  by  something  sharp  and  stinging,  and, 
opening  her  eyes,  saw  Mary  leaning  over  her  with 
a  branch  of  some  thorny  plant  in  her  hand  ;  but 
not  even  the  seemingly  cruel  method  of  her  revival 
recalled  her  so  much  as  the  look  of  horror  on  the 
girl's  freckled  face. 

"  Poller  me — so  !  "  the  latter  whispered,  and 
crawling  behind  her,  Gertrude  came  to  a  point 
where,  peeping  through  the  sheltering  stack  of  the 
Indian  corn,  they  could  see  the  valley  beneath. 
They  were  not  more  than  half  a  mile,  as  the  bee 
flies,  from  the  mosque.  It  lay  just  below  them,  and 
Gertrude,  following  the  direction  of  Mary's  finger, 
felt  her  blood  grow  chill  within  her  veins  as  she 
saw  five  armed  figures  steal  through  the  garden 
to  the  door  from  which  the  two  women  had  so 
recently  escaped. 

The  next  moment  they  came  rushing  out  into 
the  garden  again,  beating  about  in  search  of  their 
victim.     Mary's  hand  closed  on  her  companion. 

"  If  they  find  our  thrack  an'  come  sthraight 
afther  us  they'll  be  ten  minutes  gettin'  here,"  she 
said  huskily.  "  Missis  dear,  I  only  ax  ye  to  run  ten 
minutes  more.  If  we  can  but  get  through  this  field 
an'  down  towards  the  river  I  know  where  we  can 
hide,  an'  they'll  not  be  follerin'  fur  fear  o'  bein' 


THEO.  GIFT,  6 1 

cut  off  by  our  men.     Only  kape  up  yer  heart  fur 
the  love  o'  God,  an'  thry." 

CHAPTER  11. 

FOR    LIFE    OR    DEATH. 

It  was  a  terrible  position;  and  the  young  wife 
and  mother  understood  it  to  the  full.  A  dull,  red 
spot  burned  in  each  white  cheek,  and  her  beautiful 
eyes  looked  glazed  and  distended;  yet  she  spoke 
firmly: 

"  I  will  do  my  best,  but  if  I  drop  leave  me;  it  will 
not  be  your  fault,  and  I  shall  not  suffer  long." 

Mary  said  nothing,  but  squeezed  the  slim,  white 
hand  in  her  brown  and  horny  one,  and  then,  only 
waiting  to  lift  the  mercifully  sleeping  children,  they 
resumed  their  flight. 

Not  for  long.  Before  they  had  reached  the  fur- 
ther extremity  of  the  maize-field  Mrs.  Clare  had 
thrice  stumbled.  The  stooping  position  now  nec- 
essary was  even  more  fatiguing  than  their  up-hill 
climb  through  the  scrub,  and  Mary  stopped  of  her 
own  accord,  warned  by  the  long-drawn,  gasping 
breath  that  her  companion's  strength  had  well- 
nigh  come  to  an  end.  A  new  idea  seized  her,  and 
taking  off  her  cloak  she  succeeded  in  strapping  the 
infants  on  to  her  back;  then  making  Mrs.  Clare 
take  her  arm,  led  her  on,  cheering  the  sinking  girl 
every  now  and  then  with  an  encouraging  whisper. 


62  A    SOLDIER'S    WIFE. 

And  the  perspiration  poured  off  either  brow  like 
scalding  rain;  and  the  pitiless  white  moon  looked 
down  with  a  searching  eye  on  the  two  poor  hunted 
women  ;  now  and  then  a  distant  cry  came  from 
behind,  warning  them  that  their  pursuers  had 
found  traces  of  their  passage.  It  was  down-hill 
now  ;  but  every  step  was  a  stumble,  every  breath 
a  prayer  ;  and  they  had  gained  such  a  little  dis- 
tance ! 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Clare  reeled,  and  the  hold  on 
Mary's  arm  gave  way.  The  red  spots  on  her 
cheeks  had  died  out  and  a  mortal  pallor  was  there 
instead. 

"  Mary,"  she  said,  every  breath  coming  with  a 
moan,  "  leave  me  now — I  command  it.  You've 
done  your  best — God  bless  you — go,  take  your 
child,  and  give  me  mine.  It  could  not  live  long 
without  me;  and  I  can  go  no  further  ;  not  one 
step." 

And  looking  in  her  face  Mary  Kirwan  saw  it  was 
true.  For  a  moment  she  stood  still  and  mute, 
then  a  scarlet  color  rushed  into  her  cheeks,  and  she 
fell  on  her  knees. 

"  O  Lord  Christ  !  I  see  a  way,  but  it's  hard, 
hard.  Help  me  to  do  it;  for  there's  no  other  at 
all." 

It  was  a  moment's  prayer,  and  no  sooner  uttered 
than  she  rose,  undid  the  children  from  her  back, 
handed  Mrs.  Clare  her  own,  and  tenderly  wrapping 


THEO.  GIFT.  63 

up  the  other  in  her  cloak  darted  away  with   it 
among  the  corn-stalks  without  a  word. 

When  she  came  back  her  arms  were  empty,  and 
her  face  was  white  as  death. 

"  Mary  !  "  cried  the  English  mother,  "  where  is 
it  ?     What  have  you  done  with  it — your  child  ?  " 

"  I've  put  it  down,"  said  Mary,  her  lips  quivering 
as  she  raised  the  other.  "  Maybe  they'll  not  be 
afther  seein'  him  (for  it's  in  a  little  hole  he  is  among 
the  corn)  widout  he  cries;  and  he'll  not  do  that, 
the  darlin',  when  I've  nursed  him  but  the  now,  an' 
wrapped  him  up  warm  to  slape." 

"  But  Mary — my  God  !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Mane  !  shure,  that  I  can't  carry  you  and  the 
childher  too,"  said  Mary  simply;  "  an'  it's  thrue,  ye 
cant  walk  no  further.  Och  !  don't  be  talkin',  but 
hould  yer  own  tight  while  I  lift  ye.  Shure  it's  not 
the  feather-weight  ye  are.  Don't  be  talkin',  I  say," 
checking  with  an  almost  fierce  authority  the  re- 
sistance which  Mrs.  Clare  would  fain  have  offered 
as  she  was  lifted  from  the  ground.  "  But  iv  ye 
never  yet  axed  the  Mother  o'  God  to  pray  for  you 
an'  yours,  ax  her  now,  as  you're  a  mother  yersel', 
for  me." 

And  on  she  strode  as  she  spoke,  walking  far  more 
swiftly  now  under  her  burden  than  when  she  had 
to  accommodate  her  steps  to  the  fragile  creature 
behind  her  ;  though  now  and  then  a  sob  broke 
from  her  bosom,  rending  the  heart  of  the  prostrate 
girl  she  carried. 


64  A    SOLDIER'S    WIFE. 

Yet  it  was  not  the  weight  which  distressed  her. 
This  dehcate,  slender-Hmbed  young  thing,  with  her 
baby  in  her  arms,  weighed  less  in  reahty  than  the 
keg  of  spirits  or  water  with  which  Mary  had  often 
marched  behind  the  Sixth,  or  the  creel  of  turf 
under  which  she  used  to  tramp  her  native  hills.  It 
was  the  mother's  heart  in  her,  fighting  and  break- 
ing for  that  sturdy,  brown-skinned  infant  whom 
every  step  put  farther  and  farther  from  her,  and  still 
she  hurried  on  more  swiftly  for  the  agony  in  her 
mind,  sometimes  running,  sometimes  stumbling, 
sometimes  nearly  falling;  never  daring  to  pause,  or 
lift  her  head  once  for  a  single  breath.  And  still 
the  cries  of  the  massacre,  broken  every  now  and 
then  by  a  shot  fired  after  some  stray  fugitive  fol- 
lowed them;  and  still  the  red  flames  of  the  burning 
cantonment  filled  the  sky  with  a  wild,  red  glow, 
still  their  pursuers  kept  upon  their  track. 

A  race  for  life  or  death,  for  honor  or  slavery,  bur- 
dened with  the  increased  weight  of  a  fainting  wo- 
man, fiying  along  under  the  black  shadow  of  the 
prickly-pear  hedges,  crouching  among  the  jungle- 
grass  in  the  open  space  till  the  moon,  passing  be- 
hind a  cloud,  enabled  the  Irish  girl  to  pursue  her 
perilous  journey  ;  scrambling  through  fields  of 
cotton,  losing  her  way  more  than  once  in  a  "  tope," 
or  grove,  of  feathery  tamarinds,  and  tulip-trees, 
matted  and  woven  together  with  creepers,  whose 
dazzling  hues  by  day  would  have  made  rich  the 
conservatory  of  an  emperor,  still  on,  on  with  one 


THEO.   GIFT.  65 

prayer  in  her  heart  that  the  waning  night  might 
be  delayed  yet  a  Httle  longer  till  she  had  reached 
a  shelter  she  knew  of,  namely,  an  ancient  tomb  half 
hidden  among  jungle  and  creepers  in  a  thicket  near 
the  river. 

And  she  did.  As  the  eastern  sky  flushed  into  a 
delicate  rose-color,  tinting  earth  and  cloud  with  an 
ineffable,  opaline  glory,  her  sore  and  wearied  feet 
stumbled  heavily  into  the  thicket  of  which  she  had 
been  in  search.  As  the  mighty  globe  of  day  rose 
above  the  horizon,  flooding  all  India  in  one  second 
with  its  dazzling  light,  the  Irish  girl  passed  under 
the  ruined  arch  of  the  tomb,  and  dropped  upon  the 
dank  earth  within  with  a  cry  of  thankfulness  half  in- 
audible from  fatigue. 

They  zucre  safe. 

And  Mrs.  Clare,  rising  to  her  knees,  took  the 
brown  hands  to  which  she  owed  her  life  in  her  little 
fingers,  covering  them  with  tears  and  kisses  as 
again  and  again  she  poured  thanks  and  blessings 
on  her  preserver.     Mary  checked  her. 

"  Whisht  !  Not  a  word  above  yer  breath  ! 
Shure,  an'  I'm  hearin'  somethin'  passin'  the 
now." 

Men's  voices  were  indeed  audible,  laughing  and 
talking  loudly  along  the  road,  but  whether  they 
were  deserters,  or  only  coolies  on  their  way  to 
labor,  the  women  could  not  tell,  as  they  cowered  in 
the  inmost  recesses  of  their  sanctuary,  not  even 
venturing  for  the  next  half-hour  to  creep  out  to 


^^  A    SOLDIER'S    WIFE. 

drink  at  a  little  muddy  pool  among  the  reeds, 
which  grew  thickly  all  round  them,  though  their 
lips  and  throats  were  so  parched  and  swollen  by 
this  time,  that  they  had  hardly  been  able  even  to 
whisper  a  word  to  one  another. 

Mrs.  Clare,  with  great  discretion,  drank  spar- 
ingly; and  would  fain  have  coaxed  Mary  to  do  the 
same;  but  the  latter  plunged  her  hot  face  deep  into 
the  water,  swallowing  it  in  gulps,  and  only  reply- 
ing when  she  had  slaked  her  thirst  to  the  full, 

"  Lave  me  alone.  It's  got  to  last  me  till  I  get 
back." 

"  Back  !  where  ?  "  Mrs.  Clare  asked,  but  was 
abashed  by  the  reply. 

"  Shure,  an'  is  it  lave  me  child  fur  good  I'd  be 
doin'  ?  " 

Gertrude  burst  into  tears.  Her  long  fainting-fit 
had  confused  her,  and  she  now  reproached  herself 
bitterly. 

"  Ah,  how  could  I  let  you  !  And  you  whom 
I've  often  looked  down  on  !  Why  didn't  you  leave 
me  instead  ?  " 

"  You're  a  woman  yersel',"  said  Mary  gently. 
"  An'  could  you  be  afther  lavin'  a  feller-woman  now 
to  the  marcy  o'  thim  black  divils  ?  As  to  the  boy, 
acushla  " — her  plain  features  working  unrestrain- 
edly with  the  sorrow  she  tried  not  to  express  in 
words — "  wasn't  it  betther  to  lave  him  awhile,  an' 
he  slapin'  like  an  angel  in  me  ould  cloak,  that's  for 
all  the  world  the  color  o'  the  groun'  ?     Shure,  I 


THEO.   GIFT.  67 

tuk  him  to  the  font  meself  afore  iver  we  left  Cal- 
cutta, as  is  more  than  iver  ye've  been  afther  doin' 
for  yours  I'll  be  boun',  the  purty,  wee  craythur  !  so 
I'd  the  clane  right  to  say  to  our  blessed  Lord,  '  It's 
You  he  belongs  to  now,  so  take  care  ov  him  till  I'm 
comin'  back,  for  it's  meself  is  takin'  care  of  a  poor 
unbelavin'  sowl  for  You,'  I  said." 

"  But,  Mary,"  cried  Mrs.  Clare,  weeping  more 
freely  for  the  girl's  simplicity  and  confidence, 
"  don't  go  noii}.  It  will  be  only  throwing  away 
your  own  life,  and  if  they  have  discovered  him — 
oh  !  please  God  they  have  not  ! — it  will  be  too  late 
to  save  him.  Don't,  Mary  !  The  Sixth  will  be 
here  in  a  few  hours  hence,  and  then  we  will  go 
back  together  and  search  for  him,  and  he  shall 
never  want  for  anything  again  if  I  can  help  it,  or 
you  either.     Only  stay  !  " 

But  Mary  shook  her  rough  head  doggedly. 

"  I  could  thrust  Him  above  to  help  me  when  I 
was  thryin'  to  help  Him,"  she  said,  "  but  ef  'twas 
carin'  for  meself  I  was — an'  shure  anyhow  is  it  I 
could  sit  here,  an'  me  purty,  bright-eyed  boy,  Jim's 
one  bairn,  tugging  at  me  heart-sthrings  the 
while  ?  " 

And  yet  it  was  with  a  stern,  beautiful  patience 
that  she  delayed  another  ten  minutes  to  feed  Mrs. 
Clare's  tiny  infant  which  had  wakened  crying  with 
a  hunger  which  its  poor  young  mother  had  no 
power  to  relieve.  Then,  her  work  of  charity  com- 
pleted, the  private's  wife  gave  the  babe  back  to  its 


68  A    SOLDIER'S    WIFE. 

mother,  and  sallied  forth  on  the  return  search  for 
her  child. 

Left  alone  the  hours  passed  wearily  with  the 
officer's  wife.  She  was  worn  out  with  fatigue  and 
agitation.  She  was  faint  with  hunger,  and,  do 
what  she  would,  her  child  wailed  and  fretted  as  if  in 
pain,  keeping  her  in  constant  alarm  lest  the  noise 
should  lead  to  their  discovery. 

The  sun  rose  higher  and  higher,  till  the  low  en- 
trance to  the  ruin  glowed  like  the  yellow  mouth  of 
a  furnace.  The  child,  tired  with  crying,  fell  asleep 
again;  and  she  herself  was  resting  in  a  sort  of  half- 
slumber  of  exhaustion,  when  a  noise  from  without 
startled  her  to  a  sitting  position,  her  heart  sick  with 
terror.  There  was  a  clatter  of  horses'  feet,  and  the 
regular  tramp  of  many  men  coming  up  the  road. 

Was  it  the  Sixth  ?  Or  was  it  the  party  of  the 
mutineers  which  had  separated  from  their  fellows  ? 

If  it  were  the  former,  they  might  pass  on,  never 
suspecting  her  presence,  and  leave  her  to  perish  of 
hunger  and  weakness.  If  the  latter,  and  she  were 
to  show  herself,  God  only  could  foresee  her  fate  in 
its  full  horror.  And  the  tramp,  tramp  came  nearer 
and  nearer.  She  could  catch,  now  and  then,  the 
gleam  of  arms  among  the  trees  which  hid  the  ruin. 

The  suspense  became  intolerable.  Laying  her 
child  gently  in  a  dark  corner,  she  crawled  to  the 
entrance  and  looked  out.  A  body  of  troops  were 
passing.  She  could  see  the  scarlet  uniforms  of  the 
Sixth,  and  the  Scotch  caps  and  gray  jackets  of 


THEO.  GIFT.  69 

Captain  Donaldson's  men  as,  at  quick  march  and 
in  double  file,  they  passed  along,  and  yet  when  she 
tried  to  call  to  them  her  tongue  clove  to  her  mouth, 
a  mist  rose  before  her  eyes,  and  with  a  faint  cry  she 
sank  face  foremost  on  the  ground. 

When  she  recovered  she  was  in  her  husband's 
arms,  and  his  grateful  tears  were  on  her  face.  Lit- 
tle indeed  did  that  young  officer,  who,  on  the  re- 
turn march,  had  heard  of  the  attack  on  Futterhabad 
and  the  wholesale  massacre  of  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  of  white  blood,  expect  to  see  his  wife  alive 
and  safe.  The  Sixth  had  met  and  defeated  the 
party  of  which  they  were  in  search  with  more  ease 
than  they  had  expected,  and  were  in  consequence 
returning  rather  earlier,  when  they  met  en  route 
the  body  of  mutineers  despatched  for  that  purpose, 
who,  by  first  harassing  and  then  leading  them  in 
pursuit,  had  without  the  loss  of  more  than  two  or 
three  men  contrived  to  delay  them  two  good  hours 
on  their  way. 

•if-  ■if.  ■if-  ^  Hf. 

And  Mary  ? 

Neither  you,  nor  I,  nor  any  one  save  those  Eng- 
lish women  who  passed  through  the  agonies  of  that 
Indian  "  reign  of  terror  "  can  tell  what  this  girl  en- 
dured in  her  return  search  for  her  child. 

It  was  then  in  the  last  week  of  May,  and  the 
heat  at  eight  o'clock  was  so  intense  that  it 
seemed  to  frizzle  the  brains  in  her  uncovered 
head.      She  had  lost  a  shoe,  and  her  feet  were 


70  A   SOLDIER'S    WIFE. 

cut  and  swollen.  Her  head  felt  swollen  too, 
and  her  eyes  were  dim  and  distended;  as  the  sun 
grew  hotter  and  hotter  a  species  of  delirium  seemed 
to  seize  her.  She  saw  before  her  a  crowd  of  Se- 
poys with  inflamed  eyes  and  dark  ferocious  faces, 
and  in  the  midst  of  them  her  baby  held  on  high  by 
one  of  the  miscreants  in  the  act  to  dash  its  brains 
out  upon  the  ground.  She  shrieked  aloud  in  her 
agony,  darted  wildly  forward,  stumbled,  fell  bead- 
long  to  the  ground,  staggered  to  her  feet  again  ; 
and  lo  !  the  Sepoys  were  gone,  and  instead  her 
child  was  wailing,  wailing  somewhere  in  front  of 
her.  Yes,  she  saw  it  now  distinctly,  wrapped  in 
the  cloak  as  she  had  left  it  among  the  corn-stalks, 
and  near  it,  crouching  for  a  spring,  a  huge  Bengal 
tiger.  Again  she  screamed  and  sprang  forward, 
throwing  out  her  arms  wildly  to  scare  the  animal, 
and  again  the  horrible  vision  vanished — onlv  to  be 
renewed  a  thousand  times  in  a  thousand  different 
forms. 

And  then,  all  at  once,  the  weight  rolled  off  her 
brain,  and  the  red  mist  from  before  her  eyes.  She 
was  on  her  knees  in  the  maize-field,  and  in  front  of 
her  was  the  verv^  hole  where  she  had  laid  her  infant, 
with  the  rusty  plaid  cloak  crumpled  on  the  edge  of 
it. 

But  the  child  ? 

For  the  moment  an  awful  despair  seized  her,  and 
a  cry  broke  from  her  lips  so  shrill  and  unearthly 
that  it  scared  away  a  couple  of  vultures  who  were 


THEO.   GIFT.  71 

hovering  low  over  something  a  yard  or  two  distant. 
A  Httle  cooing,  gurghng  note  of  pleasure  answered, 
and  turning  she  saw  a  round  rosy  face  among  the 
corn-stalks  and  a  pair  of  fat  hands,  and  naked, 
dimpled  feet  trying,  by  stretching  and  crawling,  to 
get  at  the  mother  who  had  left  it. 

When  Captain  Clare,  accompanied  by  four  of  his 
men,  entered  the  same  field  to  search  for  his  wife's 
preserver,  they  found  Mary  quietly  seated  on  the 
ground  nursing  her  baby,  and  the  ringing  cheer 
which  greeted  the  sight  might  have  shown  her  how 
her  heroism  was  appreciated  by  those  brave, 
rugged  hearts.  She  hardly  heeded  it  ;  but  just 
stood  up,  dropping  her  courtesy  to  the  ofhcer,  and 
then  looked  round  at  the  others. 

"  An'  where's  my  Jim  at  all  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer.  The  men  did  not  seem  to 
hear,  and  Captain  Clare  began  urging  her,  in  an 
agitated  way,  to  hasten  with  him  to  the  carriage  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill  where  Mrs.  Clare  was  waiting 
for  her.     Mary  courtesied  again. 

"  Thank  ye,  sur.  'Tis  very  good  ye  are  to  me  : 
but  I'm  not  wantin'  to  lave  me  husband,  though  it'?: 
not  *  on  the  stringth  '  I  am.  Shure,  I'll  go  dow^-' 
to  him  the  now,  since  he's  no  mind  to  come  up  to 
me.  Maybe,  though,  he's  not  got  lave  to  fall  out 
o'  the  ranks  for  that." 

The  last  words  were  said  piteously,  her  eager 
blue  eyes  lifted  to  the  officer's  kindly  face.  Very 
gently  he  took  her  arm. 


72  A    SOLDIER'S    WIFE. 

"  Come  to  the  carriage  first,  Mary,  anyway. 
Mrs.  Clare  wants  to — to  speak  to  you.  My  good 
girl,  my  brave  girl,  you're  not  going  to  give  way 
now  ?  " 

"  Is  it  kilt  he  is  ?  "  she  asked  hoarsely;  and  then 
before  any  reply  could  be  given  save  the  mute  an- 
swer of  the  eyes,  the  child  fell  from  her  arms,  she 
reeled  suddenly,  and  dropped  a  senseless,  crumpled 
heap  at  the  commander's  feet. 


BARONESS  PAULINE  VON  HUGEL. 


Pauline  Marie  von  Hugel  was  born  at  Florence,  where 
her  father  was  Austrian  envoy  to  the  Duke  of  Tuscany 
When  still  in  her  teens,  having  lost  her  father,  she  went  to 
reside  in  England  with  her  mother,  by  birth  a  Scotchwoman. 
She  first  began  to  write  for  TJie  Catholic  Fireside,  in  which 
appeared  short  lives  of  St.  Cecilia,  St.  Benedict,  St.  Fran- 
cis, and  St.  Ignatius,  as  well  as  several  tales.  She  has 
written  the  •■  Price  of  the  Pearl,"  published  by  the  Catholic 
Truth  Society,  a  sketch  of  Lady  Clare  Feilding  for  The 
Catholic  Magazific,  and  "  Carmen's  Secret,"  which,  after 
coming  out  in  IVte  Catholic  .}fai:^azine,  is  to  be  republished 
in  book-form  by  the  Catholic  Truth  Society. 


jfair  H)orotb^  Milmot 

BY  BARONESS  PAULINE  VON  HUGEL. 

CHAPTER  I. 

"  Joan,  Joan,  what  think  you  ?  Her  Grace  and 
my  Lord  Cardinal  are  dead  !  " 

The  speaker  was  my  dear  lady,  the  beantiful  Mis- 
tress Dorothy  Wilmot,  and  the  event  of  which  she 
did  apprise  me  was  the  death  of  the  Queen  of  Eng- 
land and  her  kinsman,  Cardinal  Pole. 

"  God  rest  their  souls  !  "  I  cried,  suffering  the 
work  I  held  to  drop  into  my  lap;  "  'tis  evil  days  we 
have  to  look  for  now  !  " 

"  Nay,  Joan,"  said  my  mistress,  "  give  not  place 
to  doleful  dumps — methinks  thou  art  not  unlike  a 
raven  in  thy  black  gown  and  with  thy  black  eyes — 
those  black  eyes  of  thine  are  wont  to  tinge  what 
they  see  with  somewhat  of  their  own  hue.  What 
cause  is  there  for  fear?  Will  not  the  Lady  Eliza- 
beth be  Queen  now  ?  Stay,  thou  wert  not  by  when 
my  father  told  of  what  took  place  but  two  weeks 
ago  !  'Tis  the  King  of  Spain,  it  seems,  hath  fa- 
vored her  succession — is  he  not  as  good  a  Papist  as 

75 


^6  FAIR  DOROTHY    WILMOT. 

thyself  ?  And,  to  make  the  matter  more  secure, 
Her  Grace  sent  for  the  Lady  Ehzabeth,  and  before 
she  would  name  her  heir  to  the  throne,  required  a 
solemn  promise  of  fidelity  to  the  Catholic  faith;  and 
then  my  Lady  Elizabeth  did  confirm  the  sincerity 
of  her  belief  in  the  strongest  words,  and  prayed 
God  that  '  the  earth  might  open  and  swallow  her 
up  if  she  were  not  a  true  Roman  Catholic'  What 
sayest  thou  now,  Joan  ?  " 

"  That  words  are  cheap.  Mistress  Dorothy,  and 
that  perchance  to  the  Lady  Elizabeth  England's 
crown  seemeth  worth  a  lie — nay,  be  not  angry — all 
may  be  mighty  well,  but  do  men  gather  grapes  of 
thorns,  or  figs  of  thistles  ?  When  they  do,  then 
shall  a  daughter  of  King  Henry  and  Anne  Boleyn 
be  what  we  would  have  her  be." 

"  And  when  a  Queen  shall  be  to  thy  entire  liking, 
then,  my  good  Joan,  shall  we  be  living  in  Utopia, 
the  land  of  which  that  wise  man,  Thomas  More, 
did  write.  Was  not  Queen  Mary  too  Catholic  for 
thy  liking  ?  " 

"  Nay,  not  too  Catholic,"  I  made  answer;  "  that 
could  not  be;  but  persecution  misliketh  me  sore;  did 
not  the  Lord  of  the  harvest  say  that  the  wheat  and 
cockle  should  be  suffered  to  grow  together  until 
the  end,  when  He,  not  Queen  or  Parliament,  would 
see  to  the  burning  of  the  cockle  ?  'Tis  not,  believe 
me,  the  best  Catholics  that  have  advised  the  excel- 
lent Queen  to  these  strong  measures;  'tis  rather 
some  who  would  have  Her  Grace  think  them  good 


BAKOA^ESS  PAULINE    VON  HUG  EL.  77 

Catholics  by  sho\Ying  this  unhallowed  zeal,  and 
who,  I  misdoubt  me  sore,  will  be  among  the  first 
to  shuffle  off  their  ill-fitting  Popery  when  their  new 
sovereign  shall  bid  them  do  so." 

My  lady's  blue  eyes  began  to  flash,  and  I  dared 
say  no  more.  Somewhat  haughtily  she  bade  me  get 
together  her  best  w^earing  apparel,  as  full  soon  she 
and  her  father  would  be  travelling  up  to  London 
to  see  the  new  queen  pass  through  the  town  in 
state.  "  But  thou  canst  tarry  here  an  thou  dost 
list,"  she  added  coldly;  "  I  can  dispense  thee  from 
thy  service." 

And  so  my  lady  left  me  to  my  thoughts.  Why 
was  Mistress  Dorothy  thus  discomposed  ?  The 
reason  was  not  far  to  seek,  but  ere  I  tell  it,  let  me 
say  a  few  words  touching  other  matters,  and,  first 
of  all,  concerning  Joan,  her  waiting-maid.  My 
mother  had  come  over  from  Spain  to  the  service  of 
Queen  Katharine,  had  married  in  England,  and 
early  left  a  widow,  had  sent  me  across  the  seas  to 
be  brought  up  in  a  nunnery,  while  she  took  service 
once  more,  this  time  W'ith  my  Lady  Wilmot.  That 
lady  soon  learned  to  love  the  trusty  waiting-woman 
right  w^ell,  and  it  was  through  her  good  offices  that 
the  little  wench  in  the  foreign  convent,  who  had 
displayed  quick  parts  and  a  thirst  for  knowledge, 
was  trained  up  somewhat  beyond  her  station.  But 
calamity  was  to  befall  poor  Joan — she  married 
young,  and  she  too,  like  her  mother,  was  early 
left   a  portionless   widow,   and   then  Joan's   first 


78  FAIR  DOROTHY    WILMOT. 

thought  was  to  return  to  England  and  take  ser- 
vice with  my  Lady  \\'ihnot,  and  if  possible  fill  the 
vacancy  left  by  the  sudden  death  of  her  valued 
waiting-woman.  I  shall  never  forget  my  coming 
unto  Chesney  Court,  and  my  Lady  Wilmot's  kind- 
ness. She  was  a  most  sweet  lady,  good  and  beau- 
tiful,— though  not  so  beautiful  as  Mistress  Doro- 
thy. The  dear  lady  looked  at  me  long  and  search- 
ingly,  and  then  she  did  embrace  me.  "  God  bless 
thee,  Joan,"  said  she  earnestly,  "  thou  art  come  to 
be  to  Dorothy  what  thy  mother  was  to  me,  the 
faithfullest  of  serving-women — but  be  thou  yet 
more  than  this.  If  I  mistake  not,  thou  canst  read 
men  and  women  as  well  as  books — be  Dorothy's 
friend  when  I  am  gone." 

I  marvelled  at  these  words,  but  at  that  moment 
entered  my  lord,  and  with  him  Mistress  Dorothy. 

How  shall  I  describe  my  mistress  as  I  first  saw 
her  in  the  fair  sunset  of  that  summer  evening  ! 
The  maid  was  scarce  sixteen  years  of  age,  tall  and 
most  exceeding  comely — her  golden  hair  framed 
a  face  fairer  and  sweeter  than  any  I  have  ever  seen. 
Some  little  pride  and  wilfulness  were,  perchance, 
written  in  the  curves  of  the  delicate  lips;  the  blue 
eyes  looked  resolute  and  true  as  well  as  loving, 
but,  above  all,  on  the  fair  countenance  there  was 
that  look  of  candid  innocence  which,  methinks,  the 
Lord  must  have  seen  writ  on  the  brow  of  the  young 
man  whom  straightway,  as  He  looked  upon,  He 
loved.    My  heart  as  well  as  mine  eyes  had  seemed 


BARONESS  PAULINE    VON  HUGEL.  79 

to  travel  forth  to  greet  the  comely  maiden;  I  went 
up  to  ]\Iistress  Dorothy — my  gift  from  God,  given 
by  Him  to  fill  the  aching  empty  place  in  my  heart. 
*'  I  am  your  serving-woman  and  friend,  madam,  all 
the  days  of  my  life,"  I  said,  bowing  low  before  her. 
She  smiled,  and  the  whole  fair  face  seemed  lit  up 
as  though  by  brightest  sunshine. 

"  Dear  Joan,"  she  said,  stooping  down  to  kiss 
me,  "  nay,  what  a  little  body  thou  art  to  be  so  old 
and  wise  !  Thou  shalt  teach  me  much  of  thy  for- 
eign lore,  for  I  too  have  a  mind  to^  be  learned." 

At  this  my  lord  burst  out  a-laughing.  "  What 
quoth  he,  "  art  thou  not  fair  enough,  Doll,  to  find 
a  husband  whether  thy  head  be  full  or  empty  ?  " 

Whereat  Mistress  Dorothy  frowned,  and  tapped 
her  foot  impatiently.  "  'Tis  for  my  own  use,  sir, 
not  a  husband's,"  she  made  answer,  "  that  I  would 
fain  furnish  my  head."  Whereat  my  lord  laughed 
the  more,  but  my  lady  chid  her  daughter  gently 
for  being  too  forward  with  her  answers. 

Soon  after  Joan's  coming  my  lady's  health,  as 
she  doubtless  had  foreseen,  began  rapidly  to  de- 
cline, and  she  grew  so  feeble  ere  the  winter  had 
come  'twas  a  wonder  slie  had  spirit  enough  left  to 
crave  my  lord  to  carry  herself  and  all  of  us  to  Lon- 
don to  witness  the  most  memorable  and  touching 
sight  I  ever  did  behold.  The  Cardinal  bearing  the 
Pope's  pardon  to  this  realm  had  been  escorted  in 
triumph  from  Dover.  At  Gravesend  he  entered 
the  royal  barge  to  which  he  did  affix  his  silver  rood 


8o  FAIR  DOROTHY    WILMOT. 

— ah,  me  !  'twas  goodly  that  the  sign  of  our  salva- 
tion should  be  publicly  honored  in  this  land  again. 
And  now,  on  the  feast  of  St.  Andrew,  the  Cardinal 
did  solemnly  absolve  the  nation  from  its  apostasy. 
We  knelt  as  we  heard  the  great  "  Amen  ''  ring  out 
into  the  still  air,  and  round  about  were  strong  men, 
as  well  as  women,  weeping  and  striking  their 
breasts  as  they  cried  out,  "  This  day  are  we  born 
again  !  " 

We  received  the  Cardinal's  blessing  after  the 
Mass  as  he  made  his  way  past  his  kneeling  fellow- 
countrymen,  from  whom  he  had  been  an  exile  be- 
cause of  his  fidelity  to  Rome.  Then  did  we  hurry 
to  Paul's  Cross  to  hear  Chancellor  Gardiner  preach 
to  the  multitude,  bewailing  sore  that  he  had  not 
withstood  His  Majesty  as  he  ought  touching  the 
supremacy,  and  calling  on  those  who  in  times  so 
perilous  had  flinched  or  faltered,  to  seek  Christ's 
pardon  with  himself.  But  the  crowning  grace,  it 
seemed  to  me,  was  when  the  Most  Holy  Sacrament 
was  carried  through  the  streets  of  the  great  city 
that  like  Jerusalem  had  been  so  faithless  to  its 
Lord — the  banners  gleamed,  the  censers  waved, 
and  from  a  hundred  hundred  hearts  and  lips  burst 
forth  the  cry,  "  Lauda  Sion  salvatorem  !  What 
think  you  must  those  generous  souls  have  felt  who 
through  evil  report,  as  well  as  now  in  good  report, 
who  in  prisons  and  stripes  beyond  measure  had 
ever  remained  faithful  and  true  ? 

That  evening  my  lady  retired  to  rest  somewhat 


BARONESS  PAULINE    VON  HUG  EL.  8 1 

early,  wearied  with  the  fatigues  of  the  day.  When 
I  had  fulfilled  my  little  duties  about  her  person  she 
did  take  hold  of  my  hand.  "  Joan,"  said  she,  a 
happy  light  shining  in  her  eyes,  "  I  can  sing  my 
*  nunc  dimittis  '  now — England  is  Catholic  and  my 
lord  is  reconciled  unto  the  Church.  My  dear 
daughter  I  leave  unto  thy  care  ;  promise  me,  a 
dying"  woman,  never  to  leave  her,  to  help  her 
through  the  many  perils  of  the  world." 

"  I  will  serve  her,"  I  made  answer,  "  all  the  days 
of  my  life,  but,  alack!  a  poor  waiting-woman  scarce 
a  dozen  years  her  senior,  can  hope  for  little  influ- 
ence over  one  of  her  quality  and  high  spirit." 

My  lady  sighed.  "  Ah,  child,"  she  said,  "  I  am 
leaving  this  world  of  lying  shadows  for  the  land  of 
truth  and  substance — thinkest  thou  my  poor  Doro- 
thy's quality  or  fair  face  will  avail  her  there  ?  Me- 
thinks  she  may  need  a  friend  more  than  the  poor- 
est, most  ill-conditioned  wench  in  all  this  great 
city.  To  thee  do  I  this  day  most  solemnly  com- 
mit her." 

"  I  will  do  my  best,  my  very  best,"  I  answered 
through  my  tears,  "  that  beyond  Jordan  Mistress 
Dorothy  and  you  may  meet,  never  to  part  again," 

Ere  Christmastide  had  come  and  gone  the  poor 
of  Chesney  Court  had  lost  a  constant  friend,  my 
lord  the  best  and  gentlest  of  wives,  and  my  dear 
mistress,  young,  beautiful,  and  headstrong,  was  left 
without  a  mother,  to  face  the  dangers  of  the  great 
world. 


82  FAIR  DOROTHY    WILMOT. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Four  years  passed  by  and  Mistress  Dorothy  was 
a  child  no  longer.  Her  father  was  proud  beyond 
measure  of  his  daughter's  comeliness  and  parts; 
moreover  it  was  to  her  alone  that  he  could  look 
to  advancing  the  fame  of  his  house,  for  other  chil- 
dren had  he  none.  Yet  more  than  one  goodly  al- 
liance did  Mistress  Dorothy  reject,  till  the  day 
came — ah,  me,  how  well  I  mind  it  now  ! — when, 
casting  her  arms  about  my  neck,  she  did  cry, 
"  What  think  you,  Joan  ;  I  have  parted  with  my 
heart  at  last  !  " 

"  To  whom,  dear  soul  ?  "  quoth  I.  "  Unto  some 
one  worthy  of  thy  favor,  I  do  trust,  and  of  the  right 
sort  touching  religion  ?  " 

"  Yea,"  said  she,  with  that  smile  like  to  sunshine, 
"  'tis  my  Lord  Erdleigh — is  he  not  a  good  enough 
Papist  to  please  even  thee,  mine  own  dear  Joan  ?  " 

Her  words  sent  a  cold  chill  to  my  heart.  Lord 
Erdleigh  was  a  gentleman  nigh  twenty  years  her 
senior — handsome,  rich,  and  in  very  good  favor  at 
the  court,  but,  alack!  I  wholly  mistrusted  him.  In 
the  days  of  King  Henry  he  had  taken  the  oath  of 
supremacy,  and  in  return  had  been  rewarded  with 
a  goodly  share  of  Church  property  ;  his  zeal  had 
gone  further  in  his  late  Majesty's  reign — he  was  a 
stanch  upholder  of  the  new  doctrines  and  had 
been,  so  it  was  rumored,  the  familiar  friend  of  Cran- 


BAKOiVESS   PA  ULINE    VON  HUGEL.  83 

mer.  He  was  a  zealous  Papist  now,  none  could 
deny  that  ;  more  than  once  at  assemblies  had  he 
dropped  his  beads  from  his  doublet,  and  on  his 
friends  making  somewhat  merry  thereat,  had  re- 
plied gravely,  *'  I  always  carry  the  like  about  with 
me  to  insure  the  protection  of  Heaven,"  More- 
over, he  was  one  of  those  who  most  advised  the 
Queen  sternly  to  persecute  heretics,  and  affected 
to  be  sore  scandalized  with  some  of  the  English 
hierarchy,  and  Cardinal  Pole  in  especial,  for  say- 
ing: "  Bishops  should  look  on  those  who  erred  as 
sick  children,  and  not  for  that  to  slay  them,"  and 
that  "  Bishops  ought  not  to  seek  the  death,  but 
rather  to  instruct  the  ignorance  of  their  misguided 
brethren." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  dear  lady  !  "  was  all  I  could  say, 
in  deep  distress. 

"  Nay,  what  ails  thee  ?  "  she  cried  impatiently. 
"  Hath  not  my  lord  found  favor  with  Her  Majesty 
— be  not  that  a  pledge  of  loyalty  to  Rome  ?  " 

"  A  better  would  have  been,"  I  answered  boldly, 
"  had  he  been  reconciled  to  the  Church  of  Christ, 
without  waiting  first  to  be  assured  that  he  should 
retain  his  ill-gotten  goods.  Would  there  were 
more  like  Her  Majesty,  who  hath  given  up  many 
thousands  of  yearly  revenue,  saying  with  noble 
spirit  to  those  who  would  have  withheld  her  there- 
from, '  I  value  the  peace  of  my  conscience  more 
than  ten  such  crowns  as  that  of  England.'  " 

Woe's  me  !     In  my  zeal  how  had  I  lacked  dis- 


84  FAIR  DOROTHY    WILMOT. 

cretion  !  Mistress  Dorothy  was  a  great  lover  of 
my  lord,  her  father — he  had  never  gone  so  far  as 
my  Lord  Erdleigh,  either  against  Pope  or  lieretics, 
but  he  had  waited  for  reconcilement  with  the 
Church  till  the  Cardinal  had  brought  assurances 
from  Rome  that  holders  of  monastic  property 
should  be  left  in  undisturbed  possession.  I  could 
plainly  see  by  Mistress  Dorothy's  visage  that  I  had 
displeased  her  sore. 

"  'Tis  easy  work  for  those  who  have  nothing  to 
win  or  lose  to  talk  mightily  magnanimous,"  she 
said  haughtily,  "  but  I  counsel  thee,  Joan,  an  thou 
wouldst  tarry  with  me,  to  mind  and  mend  thy  man- 
ners, since  my  husband  will  not  be  one  to  brook 
churlishness  or  froward  speeches." 

"  Bid  me  not  to  leave  thee  !  "  I  cried  passion- 
ately; "  Vv^ho  will  ever  love  thee  as  I  do  ?  Ah,  mis- 
tress mine,  is  not  thy  heart  great  enough  to  pardon 
a  few  slips  in  courtesy  in  view  of  a  life's  devotion  ? 
Art  thou  like  the  rest  of  the  world  ?  must  I  fawn 
and  flatter,  and  say  peace,  peace,  when  I  know 
there  is  no  peace  ?  may  I  never  for  one  moment 
forget  thy  quality  and  my  nothingness,  and  re- 
member only  that  we  are  both  Christian  women 
who  have  the  same  God  to  serve,  who  belong  to 
the  same  great  Church,  who  are  hoping  for  the 
same  glorious  heaven  ?  " 

Mistress  Dorothy's  eyes  had  grown  very  gentle 
ere  I  had  ceased  speaking. 

"  Fear  nothing,  dear  heart,"  said  she;  "no  one  in 


BARONESS  PAULINE    VON  HUGEL.  85 

all  Christendom  shall  part  us  two — I  promise  it 
thee  in  my  dead  mother's  name.  But  why  mis- 
doubt me  so  ?  Dost  thou  think  I  would  marry  my 
lord  did  I  not  believe  him  to  be  a  true  Catholic  ? 
Why  am  I  bound  to  believe  evil  of  one  who  hath 
proved  himself  so  zealous  ?  Methinks  I  am  a  bet- 
ter Christian  than  thou  art,  for  I  be  less  severe  in 
my  judgments.  Hadst  thou  been  one  of  the  chosen 
twelve,  sure  it  is  thou  wouldst  have  warned  the 
Lord  against  trusting  Blessed  Peter  any  more,  and 
declined  him  as  thy  head  after  his  denial.  Hath 
my  lord  done  worse  than  Blessed  Peter  ?  " 

I  caught  hold  of  her  hand  as  I  said  :  "  My 
child,  my  mistress,  my  dear  one,  wilt  thou  give  this 
hand  of  thine  to  a  man  of  blood  ?  'Tis  true  the 
best  may  fall,  but  when  they  rise  again  they  are 
merciful,  they  persecute  no  man,  be  he  the  worst 
of  heretics — think  of  those  awful  burnings." 

Mistress  Dorothy  shuddered  as  she  cried  : 
"  Enough,  enough  !  we  women  are  altogether  too 
tender  ;  we  understand  not  such  matters.  If  I 
were  Queen,  'tis  certain  no  felon  should  be  put  to 
death,  and  then  what  would  become  of  the  safety 
of  the  realm  ?  Is  it  not  worse  to  kill  the  soul 
than  the  body.  If  'tis  lawful  to  put  to  death  one 
who  taketh  the  life  of  the  body,  is  it  less  lawful  to 
put  to  death  one  who  goeth  about  destroying 
souls  ?  Nay,  I  will  not  argue  more,  my  mind  is 
made  up;  I  imll  marry  my  lord." 

"  When  ?  "  I  asked  in  deep  dejection. 


86  FAIR  DOROTHY    WILMOT. 

"  Nay,  there  be  no  haste  in  the  matter,"  said 
she,  smiHng.  "  Her  Grace's  health  is  fast  giving 
way;  'tis  hardly  meet  for  a  courtier  to  be  thinking 
of  marriage  just  now." 

I  breathed  more  freely — Mistress  Dorothy 
might  still  be  saved  !  And  now  methinks  I  have 
brought  you  back  to  the  beginning  of  my  story. 

CHAPTER  HI. 

My  dear  lady's  anger  was  but  short-lived.  She 
came  to  me  that  very  same  evening  and  said  : 
"  Thou  art  a  troublesome  woman,  Joan,  but  for  all 
that  I  love  thee — thou  shalt  doff  thy  black  gown 
and  travel  to  London,  and  cry,  '  Long  live  Queen 
Bess  !  '  with  the  bravest  of  us." 

"  Nay,"  I  said,  laughing,  "  'tis  not  likely  Her 
Majesty's  eyes  will  pitch  upon  so  small  a  body  in 
so  great  a  throng,  but  I  am  happy  to  be  going  with 
thee." 

"  Go  to  !  thou  foolish  woman,"  the  maid  inter- 
rupted gayly,  "  who  could  settle  my  gear  but  thou? 
Thou  shouldst  know  thine  own  worth  better, 
then  wouldst  thou  be  but  little  moved  at  my 
naughty  threats." 

'Twas  a  goodly  show,  that  court  procession, 
'twere  useless  to  deny  it.  I  was  seated  in  a  little 
coign  of  vantage  at  a  casement  behind  Mis- 
tress Dorothy,  where  we  could  conveniently  view 
the  whole  of  that  great  pageant.     But  a  mist  over- 


BAKONESS  PAULINE    VON  HUGEL.  87 

spread  my  eyes  as  a  remembrance  of  the  last  pageant 
I  had  seen  in  the  self-same  city  arose  as  a  vision 
before  me.  I  saw  once  more  the  censers  wave 
and  the  banners  gleam,  the  kneehng  multitudes, 
and  then  the  good  Cardinal,  loyal  and  true,  bear- 
Him  aloft,  our  Life,  to  bless  us  as  He  went  by,  yea, 
to  bless  us,  and  be  blessed — "  Pange  lingua," 
"  Lauda  Sion  salvatorem  " — I  heard  the  strains 
again,  "  Long  live  Queen  Bess  !  "  "  Three  cheers 
for  Her  Highness  !  "  "  God  bless  your  Majesty  ! " 
These  cries  brought  me  back  to  the  present  with 
a  start.  I  looked  down  and,  lo,  I  did  behold  our 
new  Queen  !  There  was  a  slight  block  in  the 
crowd,  and  I  had  leisure  to  note  well  Her  Majesty's 
face — alack  !  it  misliked  me  sore.  Her  bearing  was 
full  queenly,  and  upon  her  countenance  'twas  easy 
to  read  a  strong  will,  a  clear  judgment,  a  ready  wit, 
wisdom  to  conceive  a  plan,  and  power  to  carry  it 
out.  But  I  saw  still  more  clearly  writ  upon  that  sa- 
gacious visage,  meanness,  cruelty,  treachery.  My 
gaze  seemed  spellbound  upon  the  cold  blue  eyes 
and  the  thin,  compressed  lips  with  their  evil  smile. 
As  I  thus  looked  my  fill,  the  Queen  glanced  upward, 
and  she  for  a  moment  seemed  spellbound  in  her 
turn.  'Twas  little  wonder,!  thought, as  I  turned  me 
round.  The  sun  was  shining  full  upon  my  comely 
mistress;  methought  I  had  never  seen  her  so  daz- 
zling in  beauty  before.  Flushed  and  radiant,  she 
was  leaning  forward  crying  out,  "  God.  bless  the 
Oueen  !  "     For  an  instant  a  frown  darkened  that 


88  FAIR   DOROTHY    WILMOT. 

smiling  royal  face,  as  her  majesty  turned  to  one  of 
her  escort — methought  to  inquire  the  name  of  the 
beautiful  maiden.  The  gentleman  looked  upward 
— 'twas  no  other  than  my  Lord  Erdleigh — I  could 
see  pleasure  and  pride  writ  in  his  glance  as  he  did 
greet  his  fair  betrothed,  but  only  a  look  of  humble 
deference  was  left  as.  bowing  low  before  Her 
Majesty,  he  made  answer  to  her  question. 

The  next  moment  the  pageant  had  passed  on, 
and  my  dear  mistress,  clapping  her  little  hands, 
cried  out:  "  What  say  you,  Joan,  does  she  not  look 
every  inch  a  Queen  ?  But  she  be  not  over  well- 
favored — 'twould  be  grievous  methinks  to  have 
such  red  hair.  Of  the  twain  'twould  please  me  bet- 
ter to  have  thy  black  locks  though  they  be  some- 
what sad-looking.  Didst  note  how  nigh  unto  the 
Queen  rode  my  Lord  Erdleigh  ?  He  be  good 
friends  with  Sir  William  Cecil,  who  doth  stand  so 
well  with  Her  Highness." 

"  Yea,"  I  remarked  with  some  disdain,  "  'tis 
bruited  that,  seeing  her  late  Majesty  misdoubted 
her  of  his  piety.  Sir  William  Cecil  said  'twas  well 
to  withdraw  allegiance  from  the  setting  to  the  ris- 
ing sun." 

My  Lord  Erdleigh  waited  upon  Mistress  Doro- 
thy and  her  father  that  evening.  Methought  my 
dear  lady  wore  a  somewiiat  troubled  look  after  the 
interview,  but  it  dispelled  as,  showing  me  a  mighty 
fair  bejewelled  ring  and  necklet,  the  gifts  of  my 
lord,  she  said,  right  earnestly  :     "  Joan,  h^  doth 


BAKONESS  PAULINE    VON  HUG  EL.  89 

in  good  truth  honor  and  cherish  me;  I  be  assured 
of  that.  It  seemeth  Her  Highness  is  known  to  be 
a  scant  favorer  of  the  marriage  of  courtiers,  and 
doth  reckon  a  fair  face  as  somewhat  of  a  crime. 
She  did  ask  after  my  name  this  day,  and  when  my 
lord  had  told  it,  she  said  sharply,  '  Rumor  hath  it, 
my  lord,  that  you  be  about  to  wed  that  waxen 
Doll,  or  Dorothy,  or  whatever  be  her  name.'  But 
my  lord  saith  that  by  good  contrivance  all  will  be 
well,  and  that  for  no  queen  in  Christendom  would 
he  give  me  up." 

"  And  touching  matters  of  faith  what  saith  my 
lord  ?  "  quoth  I. 

The  troubled  look  came  back  to  the  sweet,  can- 
did face.  "  Ah,  dear  heart,"  she  said,  "  'tis  sad  ! 
The  new  Queen  is  bent  upon  requiring  the  oath  of 
supremacy,  but  my  Lord  saith  she  will  stop  there — 
she  will  go  no  further  than  His  IMajesty,  her  father, 
who  thou  knowest  full  well  continued  Catholic 
unto  the  end." 

"  Not  so,"  I  said  firmly.  "  As  well  would  ye  seek 
to  have  a  ship  without  a  helm,  a  house  without  a 
roof,  or  a  man  without  a  head,  as  a  Catholic  with- 
out the  Pope." 

"  Joan,"  said  my  mistress  sadly,  "I  was  not  made 
for  such  deep  matters — I  leave  them  to  older  and 
wiser  heads  than  mine.  I  love  the  holy  faith,  but 
leave  me  the  Church's  blessed  sacraments,  Christ's 
dear  ]\Iother,  the  ]\Iass.  and  all  the  goodly  things 
we  prize,  what  mattereth  it  to  Dorothy  Wilmot 


90  FAIR  DOROTHY    WILMOT. 

whether  the  Pope  in  Rome,  or  the  Queen  in  Lon- 
don, be  called  head  ?  If  there  be  sin  in  the  matter, 
the  sin  will  lie  at  the  door  of  Her  Highness,  not 
at  the  door  of  such  of  her  loyal  subjects  as  do  but 
obey  the  Scriptures,  that  bid  us  be  submissive  to 
our  rulers.  Nay,  Joan,  trouble  me  not  with  thy 
disputations,  which  serve  but  to  give  me  the  head- 
ache. I  must  e'en  let  my  lord  think  and  decide 
for  me."  And  thus  ended  a  memorable  and,  to 
me,  most  sad  day. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Many  months  passed  by  at  Chesney  Court  much 
after  the  wonted  manner,  save  for  the  not  infre- 
quent comings  of  my  Lord  Erdleigh,  who  said  if 
he  but  steered  his  bark  aright,  full  confident  was  he 
of  obtaining  the  royal  sanction  for  his  union.  Thus 
hoped  I  ever  against  hope,  that  what  I  so  greatly 
feared  might  be  averted.  Methought,  though  my 
lord  loved  my  mistress,  he  yet  loved  power  and  ad- 
vancement more.  The  two  loves  seemed  hard  to 
reconcilement,  and  I  felt  assured  which  of  the 
twain  would  be  banished  from  his  heart,  if  need 
compelled  a  choice.  Mayhap  I  misjudged  him 
herein,  not  reckoning  sufficiently  upon  the  magic 
spell  m}^  dear  mistress  did  ever  cast  over  all  who 
came  nigh  unto  her  person.  Certain  it  is  that  my 
lord  was  loyal  to  her,  and  in  the  end  obtained  a 
somewhat   ungracious   consent   from  the   Queen, 


BAKO.VESS  PAULINE    VON  HUGEL.  9 1 

through  the  good  offices  of  his  friend  Sir  WilHam 
Cecil. 

Lord  Erdleigh's  country  seat  was  situate  but 
some  ten  miles  from  Chesney  Court,  for  which 
thing  Mistress  Dorothy's  father  was  right  glad, 
for,  said  he,  "  I  shall  gain  me  a  son,  and  shall  lose 
no  daughter." 

"  God  help  the  father  of  such  a  son,"  thought  I, 
as  I  looked  at  the  cold,  well-favored  visage  of  Lord 
Erdleigh. 

Mistress  Dorothy,  who  knew  by  many  a  little  to- 
ken that  no  love  was  lost  between  her  betrothed 
and  me,  would  chide  me  often  and  say,  "  Go  to, 
thou  foolish  Joan  !  Dost  thou  think  'tis  some 
cuckoo  come  to  dislodge  thee  from  thy  nest  within 
my  heart  ? — but  my  heart  be  big  enough  for  the 
two  of  ye." 

"  Sweet  soul,"  I  cried  one  day,  "  indeed  it  is  not 
thus  with  me.  I  would  be  dislodged  and  banished 
from  thy  heart  this  moment  could  I  but  further 
thereby  thy  best  interests,  thy  soul's  eternal  inter- 
ests." 

"  Joan,  Joan,  be  not  afraid,"  she  made  answer, 
a  passing  shadow  resting  upon  that  sunny  face.  "  I 
will  be  faithful  to  my  Church  as  well  as  to  my 
lord — fear  not,  'twill  all  be  well." 

And  now  within  a  month  this  dreaded  union  was 
to  take  place.  What  should  I  do  ?  What  could  I 
do  ?  Methinks  mine  angel  guardian  must  have 
whispered  a  thought  of  hope  to  me  in  my  deep  de- 


92  FAIR  DOROTHY    WILMOt. 

jection.  "  Knowest  thou  not,  faint  heart,  that  St. 
Bernard  saith,  none  ever  implored  the  help  of  the 
virgin  Mother  of  God  in  vain.  '  No  one,'  saith 
he,  not  *  no  saint,'  '  no  faithful  soul,'  but  just  plainly 
'  no  one,'  that  is  no  one  at  all.  Before  the  feast  of 
her  Visitation  this  ill-omened  match  shall  be  broken 
off — how  I  knolu  not,  but  our  own  St.  Anselm 
saith,  '  Crede  tamen  quod  juvamen  per  earn  re- 
cipias.'  " 

The  time  was  drawing  very  near,  my  dear  lady's 
wedding  apparel  was  all  ready,  but  still  I  hoped 
and  prayed  on,  "  No  one,  no  one,  O  blessed 
Mother,"  I  would  v/hisper  to  myself,  when  I  grew 
of  small  comfort. 

At  length  one  morning  Mistress  Dorothy  called 
me  to  her — she  held  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  Joan,"  she  said,  smiling,  "  we  will  ride  over 
this  day  to  Erdleigh  Castle  with  my  father.  My 
lord  saith  it  will  honor  him  greatly  if  I  will  choose 
the  special  chambers  that  please  me  best,  that  he 
may  have  them  hung  with  the  finest  tapestries  and 
adorned  for  my  use.  I  warrant  we  find  a  conven- 
ient chamber  for  thee,  too,  dear  Joan." 

The  letter  she  held  was  open  and  unfolded.  My 
sight  is  quick  and  I  noticed  an  underlined  adden- 
dum on  the  back  of  the  large  paper.  "  Pardon 
me,"  quoth  I,  "  but  hast  thou  noted  the  postscript 
to  this  letter  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  said  she,  hastily  turning  it  over.  She 
looked  a  little  discomposed  as  she  said  :     "  He 


BAKONESS  PAULINE    VON  HUG  EL.  93 

doth  add  that  if  this  message  arrive  earher  than  he 
doth  reckon  for,  he  would  beg  of  me  not  to  visit 
Erdleigh  till  next  week,  as  his  servitors  have  his  ar- 
mory and  other  chambers  to  set  in  order,  which  had 
best  be  done  ere  we  visit  the  place — 'tis  no  matter 
though,  my  father  hath  ordered  out  the  horses. 
We  will  go  this  day,  Joan." 

''Had  we  not  best  wait  ?"  I  said  faintly;  any- 
thing, everything  that  seemed  to  bring  the  mar- 
riage less  near  was  wondrous  welcome  to  me.  But 
my  mistress  little  brooked  delays  once  her  mind 
was  made  up. 

"  Go  on  !  "  she  cried.  ''  Thinkest  thou  my  lord 
hath  a  Bluebeard's  closet  that  he  would  hide  from 
view  ?  If  it  matters  not  to  me  to  find  the  place  in 
disarray,  it  will  matter  nothing  to  him  either — 
w^e  will  e'en  go,  the  more  so  as  the  day  is  full 
pleasant." 

My  heart  grew  very  heavy  as  we  rode  along. 
Mistress  Dorothy  was  in  high  spirits,  and  my  lord 
her  father  was  bantering  her  most  of  the  way.  It 
was  easy  to  see  how  much  he  liked  the  match,  for 
all  the  talk  turned  on  the  good  prospects  of  the 
two  houses.  "  And  what  of  our  trusty  Joan  ?  " 
said  my  lord,  in  his  kind,  frank  way;  "what  pre- 
ferment shall  she  have  ?  Methinks  she  looketh 
somewhat  gloomstruck  for  such  joyful  times." 

Mistress  Dorothy  glanced  at  me  somewhat  un- 
easily; the  dear  soul  was  open  as  the  day,  and  knew 
of  no  concealments  even  in  petty  matters.    "  Joan 


94  FAIR   DOROTHY    WILMOT. 

hath  a  finer  conscience  than  we  be  gifted  with," 
she  answered  Hghtly;  "  it  misHketh  her  that  my 
lord  hath  taken  the  oath  of  supremacy  to  Her 
Highness." 

My  lord's  visage  waxed  somewhat  red.  "  Well, 
well,"  said  he,  "  'tis  not  a  matter  for  young  heads 
and  womanfolk  to  meddle  with." 

"  Pardon  me,"  I  said,  his  constant  kindness  em- 
boldening me  to  speak,  "'tis  over-bold,  but  I  would 
fain  know  what  course  the  Lord  Wilmot  meaneth 
to  take — can  he  doubt  which  it  is  that  the  sainted 
lady  who  is  now  in  heaven  is  praying  that  he  may 
choose  ?  " 

I  saw  the  tears  rise  to  the  eyes  of  the  best  of  mas- 
ters. 

"  Thou  art  altogether  too  bold  for  thy  sex  and 
station,  Joan,"  he  made  answer,  "  but  if  thou  must 
needs  know,  we  in  the  country  lag  behind  the  fre- 
quenters of  the  great  city.  I  know  not  yet  how 
I  shall  act — time  enough,  time  enough — what  saith 
the  Scripture,  *  sufficit  diei  malitia  sua.'  Canst 
thou  gainsay  the  wisdom  of  that  ?  "  But  Mistress 
Dorothy,  laughing  somewhat  uneasily,  bid  him  re- 
member zvho  it  was  that  could  betimes  quote  the 
Holy  Scriptures. 

As  we  were  not  looked  for,  my  lord  bid  us  dis- 
mount at  the  castle  gates,  and  telling  the  servants 
to  take  the  horses  to  the  village  hostelry,  we  made 
our  way  to  the  great  house.  The  doors  were  stand- 
ing open — indeed,  the  whole  building  was  in  great 


BAKONESS  PA  ULIXE    VON  HUGEL.  9$ 

confusion,  waiting  men  and  maids  were  running 
hither  and  thither,  setting  to  rights  the  mansion 
that  had  not  been  much  used  by  its  owner  of  late 
years.  My  Lord  Wilmot,  hke  the  true  EngHsh 
gentleman  that  he  was,  straightway  betook  himself 
to  the  kennels  and  stables.  My  dear  mistress 
darted  hither  and  thither  with  many  an  exclama- 
tion of,  "  What  think  you,  Joan  ?  I  had  scarce 
credited  it  was  sO'  big  a  place  !  This  be  a  fine 
chamber  in  good  sooth — methinks  this  is  the  best 
of  the  withdrawing  rooms."  Suddenly  I  remem- 
bered Lord  Erdleigh  having  once  long  ago  praised 
his  chapel,  and  the  massing  stuff  and  other  rare 
things  therein  contained,  and  notably  an  ancient 
image  of  Our  Lady,  said  to  be  miraculous,  that 
the  monks  used  to  honor  in  the  days  gone  by.  Me- 
t bought  the  holy  spot  would  suit  my  heavy 
heart  far  better  than  these  grand  chambers.  Un- 
heeded by  any  one,  I  made  my  quest  first  at  one 
end  of  the  building,  then  at  the  other.  At  length 
going  up  a  flight  of  steps,  I  did  come  upon  what  I 
guessed  must  be  the  entrance  to  the  chapel.  It 
was  a  vestibule  in  which  stood  a  stoup  for  holy  wa- 
ter. Over  the  doorway  were  painted  the  words 
"  Domus  Dei,  porta  coeli."  I  entered  the  chapel, 
but  to  my  surprise  found  it  completely  empty. 

As  I  was  turning  to  go  away  after  noting  the 
beauty  of  the  groined  roof  and  oak  panelling,  a 
great  noise  in  the  court  beneath  drew  me  to  the 
casement.     I   looked   without,   and   what   I   saw 


g6  FAIR   DOROTHY    WILMOT. 

doth  haunt  me  still,  and  will,  unto  my  dying  day. 
Some  of  the  servitors  had  apparelled  themselves  in 
the  sacred  vestments;  one  was  swinging  a  censer, 
yet  another  was  holding  aloft  a  rood  of  rough  work- 
manship to  the  derision  of  the  rest.  Meanwhile 
some  half-drunken  fellows,  singing  a  song  fit  to 
make  the  angels  weep,  were  lighting  a  bonfire 
into  which  they  did  cast  first  one  holy  thing  and 
then  another.  They  had  brought  forth  the  old 
time-honored  image  of  the  blessed  Mother,  and 
were  about  to  cast  it  into  the  flames. 

For  a  moment  I  stood  rooted  to  the  spot  with 
dismay,  then  as  I  ran  down  into  the  courtyard  be- 
neath I  cried  aloud  :  "  Blasphemers,  cowards, 
traitors  all  of  ye,  how  will  ye  answer  to  your  mas- 
ter for  this  ?  " 

"  Heyday  !  what  have  we  here  ?  "  cried  one. 
"  Dost  wish,  mistress,  for  some  of  this  massing  stuff 
to  make  thyself  a  Sunday's  kirtle  with  ?  'Tis  not 
so  fine  neither,  for  my  lord  hath  long  ago  carried 
away  the  best  to  make  hangings  for  the  chamber 
of  my  lady  that  is  to  be.  Thou  shouldst  have  seen 
the  chalice,  or  cress — which  be  we  to  call  it  now  ? — • 
'twas  covered  with  fair  jewels — they  have  servefl 
for  a  necklet  and  ring  for  my  lady,  it  seemeth.  'Tis 
a  shame  to  have  left  us  naught  but  this  rubbish." 
llieir  evil  pranks  were  about  to  begin  again,  when 
suddenly  there  fell  a  silence  upon  the  unhallowed 
crowd,  as  one  man  cried  out  :  "  Here  cometh  my 
lord,"    and    Lord    Erdleigh,    in    travelling-dress, 


BARONESS  PAULINE    VON  HUG  EL.  97 

betokening  that  he  had  but  jnst  arrived,  walked 
into  the  midst  of  them. 

"  What  be  all  this  tomfoolery  ?  "  he  said  coldly, 
"  and  whom  have  we  here  ?  "  he  added,  frowning, 
as  his  glance  fell  upon  me.  "  Mistress  Joan,  ye 
would  be  better  employed  at  Chesney  Court,  at- 
tending to  the  coifs  and  gowns  of  the  fairest  lady 
in  England,  than  at  Erdleigh  Castle  mixing  in  the 
revels  of  some  drunken  clowns." 

"  My  lord,"  I  cried,  "  this  is  not  the  time  for  me 
to  explain,  but,  oh,  see  what  these  men  have  done  ! 
They  are  mocking  the  rood,  they  have  impiously 
donned  the  sacred  vestments,  they  be  about  to 
burn  that  image  of  the  blessed  Mother." 

"  What  shall  I  do  to  them  ?  "  he  said  in  mocking 
tones.  "  Perchance  thou  knowest  not  that  the 
fires  of  Smithfield  have  gone  out,  but  shall  I  cast 
these  idle  fellows  into  yon  flames  ?  " 

"  We  have  only  obeyed  my  lord's  orders,"  one 
man  said  sullenly. 

"  How  now,  sirrah  ?  "  quoth  my  lord  angrily, 
"  did  I  ever  say  to  make  all  this  hubbub,  and  to  get 
in  half  the  village  for  an  orgy  ?  " 

"  Your  lordship  said  not  so,  but  ordered  all  the 
remaining  Popish  stuff  to  be  carted  away  out  of 
the  chapel,  which  was  to  be  turned  into  the  ar- 
mory. If  my  lord  had  tarried  away  until  the  mor- 
row, when  he  was  expected,  he  would  have  found 
the  work  complete — no  sign  of  the  chapel  left — 
though  in  good  sooth  there  be  not  much  trace  left 


98  FAIR   DOROTHY    WILMOT, 

now,  saving  some  Latin  lines  and  a  vat  for  that 
water  which  the  devil  abhorreth,"  the  man  added 
with  a  laugh. 

"  Bid  the  men  take  off  these  trumpery  rags  and 
cast  them  into  the  fire  to  be  burnt  with  this  old 
scarecrow  of  a  wonder-working  image,"  said  my 
lord,  kicking  the  statue  contemptuously  towards 
the  flames.  "  I  would  have  them  cease  their  tom- 
foolery and  get  on  with  their  work." 

"Hold!"  cried  a  clear  ringing  voice,  in  tones  like 
those,  methinks,  with  which  the  wondrous  Maid  of 
Orleans  must  have  led  her  men  to  victory  or  death. 
My  lord  and  I  looked  up  at  the  same  moment. 
At  the  chapel  window,  looking  down  upon  the 
hideous  scene,  stood  Mistress  Dorothy;  her  face 
was  white  and  there  was  a  look  of  horror  in  the 
wide-opened  eyes,  but  none  of  fear — that  was  a 
look  no  one  hath  ever  seen  on  Dorothy  Wilmot's 
face.  "  My  lord,  you  will  order  that  image  of  the 
holy  Mother  of  God  to  be  rescued  from  the  flames 
instantly,  or,  by  Heaven  !  I  will  come  down  and 
rescue  it  myself." 

Lord  Erdleigh  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  lost 
in  astonishment.  "  How  came  you  hither  ?  "  he 
then  cried.  "  Any  commands  of  yours  shall  be  at 
once  obeyed."  The  half-charred  image  was 
brought  to  my  lord,  who  asked  if  there  were  any 
further  orders  for  his  men.  "  Yea,"  she  cried,  still 
in  that  ringing  voice,  and  with  the  look  of  horror 
still  in  the  great  blue  eyes,  "  bring  it  to  me  hither — 


BARONESS  PAULINE    VON  HUG  EL.  99 

and  the  rood  and  the  massing  stuff  and  the 
censer." 

"  Hath  she  gone  mad  ?  "  I  heard  a  man  mutter 
as  he  carried  up  the  things;  "  'tis  nothing  but 
charred  rubbish.     What  can  she  want  with  it  ?  " 

Lord  Erdleigh  and  I  followed  him  to  the  chapel. 
The  crowd  of  revellers  had  dispersed,  and  the  wait- 
ing-man withdrew  after  bringing  up  his  burden. 
"  And  now,  my  lord,"  quoth  Mistress  Dorothy, 
walking  up  to  him,  "  will  you  gift  me  with  these 
things  ?  "  He  bowed  low  and  waited  for  her  to 
proceed.  "  'Tis  the  first  gift  I  have  ever  asked, 
and  the  last  I  shall  ever  accept  from  thee,"  she 
continued.  Her  hands  w^ere  clasped,  and  I  noted 
that  within  them  she  held  the  fair  bejewelled  ring 
and  necklet.  "  I  cannot  give  back  these  to  yoUy' 
she  cried,  "  for  they  were  not  yours  to  give  me, 
you  robbed  them  from  the  Holy  of  holies — to 
God  must  they  be  restored.  Know  that  sooner 
would  I  starve,  sooner  would  I  be  burnt,  than  have 
any  more  dealings  with  such  an  one  as  you." 

"  Ah,  you  will  repent  of  this — you  will  indeed 
repent  of  it,"  said  my  lord,  moved  from  his  usual 
formal  bearing  by  an  emotion  that  was  not  anger, 

"  Never,"  she  answered  firmly,  "  never  shall  I 
repent  me  of  throwing  in  my  lot,  at  last,  with  what 
is  great  and  true  and  holy — with  the  Church  of 
Christ;  I  thank  Him,  oh  !  I  thank  Him  that  it  is 
not  yet  too  late." 

"  Fair,  wilful  child,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  with 


100  FAIR  DOROTHY    WILMOT. 

compassion  and  tenderness,  "  mayhap  the  days 
were  when  I,  too,  might  have  thought  like  you  ; 
but  it  is  all  a  dream;  cast  not  away  preferment, 
love,  honor,  wealth,  happiness,  for  a  dream,  a 
shadow." 

"  Thy  words  do  not  even  tempt  me,"  she  made 
answer;  "  the  esteem  in  which  I  held  thee  is  dead 
and  gone.  Never  again  could  I  touch  thy  sacri- 
legious hand  even  in  common  friendship;  go,  my 
lord,  go  and  worship  '  the  rising  sun  ' — when  the 
first  smart  is  over  thou  wilt  bless — not  Heaven, 
such  a  man  as  thou  has  naught  to  do  with  Heaven 
— but  the  stars — thy  destiny — that  thou  hast  no 
Popish  wife  to  bring  a  cloud  between  thee  and  the 
rising  sun."  At  this  moment  I  espied  my  lord 
her  father  hurrying  across  the  court,  'twas  evident 
he  had  been  apprised*  somewhat  of  what  had  taken 
place.  In  another  moment  he  was  apprised  of  the 
rest.  "  And  now  what  say  you  to  the  wilfullest  as 
well  as  the  fairest  lady  in  all  England  ?  "  quoth 
my  Lord  Erdleigh. 

My  master's  visage  had  waxed  very  red  and  he 
looked  sore  discomfited.  "  Nay,"  he  said,  grow- 
ing more  resolute  as  he  proceeded,  "  perchance — 
perchance — Doll  hath  acted  right.  Methought — - 
God  help  me — to  be  wiser  than  the  Eternal  Wis- 
dom that  said,  '  Ye  cannot  serve  two  masters.' 
The  good  Cardinal  reconciled  me  to  the  Master  I 
had  forsaken — no,  sith  the  royal  supremacy  doth 


BARONESS  PAULINE    VON  HUGEL.  lOI 

bring  so  much  of  evil  in  its  train — I — I  am  on  the 
side  of  the  Pope." 

"  Ye  know  not,  ye  know  not,"  Lord  Erdleigh 
said  earnestly,  "  to  what  ye  be  pledging  yourselves; 
I  do  happen  to  be  apprised  thereof — 'twill  mean 
fines,  imprisonment,  the  rack,  the  dungeon — death 
itself  methinks." 

"  The  color  came  back  to  Mistress  Dorothy's 
face,  she  lifted  her  head  with  noble  courage — 
never  had  I  seen  her  look  fairer  than  as  she  made 
answer  :  "  My  lord,  we  have  but  one  parting 
word  to  say — we  do  intend  to  serve  Him  who  said, 
*  Fear  not  them  that  kill  the  body,  but  fear  Him 
who  can  destroy  both  soul  and  body  in  hell.'  It  is 
He  who  hath  promised  that  as  the  day  is,  so  shall 
our  strength  be." 

-1*  -r  T*  -K  ^ 

In  a  convent  chapel  beyond  the  seas  there  is  used 
a  fair  chalice  set  with  jewels.  An  image  of  the 
blessed  Mother,  charred  and  blackened  as  though 
by  fire,  is  honored  there,  and  the  abbess,  a  woman 
of  mature  years,  prayeth  before  it  night  and  morn. 
An  aged  sister  with  more  love  than  skill  hath  in- 
scribed these  words  on  a  scroll  beneath  it  :  "  No 
one  hath  ever  had  recourse  to  thy  protection  with- 
out obtaining  relief."  The  name  of  the  sister,  it  is 
said,  used  to  be  Joan,  and  the  abbess  was  known 
in  that  world  whose  "  fashion  passeth  away"  as 
"  Fair  Dorothy  Wilmot.'' 


LADY  AMABEL  KERR. 


Lady  Amabel  Kerr,  daughter  of  the  sixth  Earl  Cowper, 
was  born  in  1846.  She  was  received  into  the  Catholic 
Church  in  1872,  and  the  following  year  was  married  to 
Admiral  Lord  Waiter  Kerr.  She  is  the  author  of  a  number 
of  books,  among  them  :  "  Unravelled  Convictions,"  being 
the  reasons  for  her  conversion  ;  "  Before  Our  Lord  Came," 
an  Old  Testament  history  for  little  children;  "A  Mixed 
Marriage,"  a  novel ;  "  Life  of  Joan  of  Arc,"  and  "  Life  of 
Blessed  Sebastian  Valfre."  She  is  at  present  the  editor  of 
The  Catholic  AFai^azitic,  the  organ  of  the  Catholic  Truth 
Society,  and  is  on  the  committee  of  the  Society. 


5ust  MF3at  was  Mantel. 

BY    LADY    AMABEL    KERR. 

The  devastating  effects  of  the  Protestant 
Reformation  on  the  reHgious  hfe  of  the  EngHsh 
people  remind  us  of  those  of  the  great  geological 
upheavals  of  prehistoric  times.  Fragments  of 
truth,  some  large,  some  infinitesimally  small,  and 
bearing  a  greater  or  lesser  resemblance  to  the  great 
rock  of  Catholic  dogma  from  which  they  have  been 
severed,  are  to  be  found  scattered  about  through 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land.  Among  such 
fragments  we  venture  to  think  that  the  largest  are 
to  be  found,  not,  as  some  might  say,  in  the  high 
Anglicanism  of  the  day,  in  spite  of  its  careful  imita- 
tion of  the  Church's  doctrines  and  ceremonies,  but 
in  those  rural  districts  where  faith  and  the  love  of 
God  have  been  kept  alive  by  dissenting  revivals. 
Though  the  idea  and  name  of  the  sacraments  have 
been  lost  as  well  as  their  reality,  a  personal  and 
realizing  love  of  our  blessed  Lord  has  survived  as 
the  one  great  fact  in  these  simple  people's  lives — a 
love  which,  besides  the  higher  graces  which  it  en- 
tails, gives  a  nobility,  and  almost  a  romance,  to  ex- 
istences which  without  it  would  be  to  the  last 

105 


I06  JUST    WHAT    WAS    WANTED. 

degree  prosaic  and  flat.  It  is  the  story  of  one  such 
as  these,  whose  fidelity  to  the  gHmmerings  of  light 
vouchsafed  to  her  was  rewarded  in  God's  own  way, 
that  we  have  to  tell  in  these  pages, 

Martha  Gray,  a  plain,  middle-aged  woman,  poor 
and  imperfectly  educated,  dwelt  by  herself  in  a 
little  straw-thatched  cottage  on  the  outskirts  of 

Appleton,  a  village  in  the  County  of  .     She 

had  refrained  from  marriage,  and  had  devoted  her- 
self with  patient,  unconscious  heroism  to  the  care 
of  her  old  parents,  bedridden  and  feeble  in  mind. 
It  was  now  some  years  since  they  had  both  passed 
to  another  life,  and  Martha  dwelt  alone  in  the  home 
of  which  for  more  than  twenty  years  she  had  been 
the  bread-winner. 

There  was  nothing  in  Martha's  surroundings  to 
raise  her  from  what  was  strictly  commonplace. 
The  country  round,  though  rural,  was  bereft  of 
natural  beauty,  and  her  neighbors  were  far  from 
elevated.  There  was  no  great  poverty  in  Apple- 
ton,  but  the  rate  of  weekly  wage  was  low,  the  labor 
to  be  performed  was  monotonous  and  deadening, 
the  homes  slatternly  and  unattractive,  and  the 
public-houses  almost  absurdly  numerous.  There 
reigned  throughout  the  place  an  atmosphere  of 
moral  torpor  accompanied  by  what  must  be  called 
a  brutish  moral  depravity,  startling  to  those  who 
think  that  innocence  must  prevail  where  the  grass 
grows  green  and  where  the  sun's  rays  are  unim- 
peded. 


LADY  AMABEL   KERR.  10/ 

Yet,  in  the  midst  of  such  surroundings,  plain 
Martha  Gray  Hved  in  a  beautiful  mystical  world  of 
her  own,  illumined  by  a  ray  of  that  divine  love 
which  raised  St.  Teresa  and  St.  Gertrude  from 
earth  to  heaven,  and  had  made  its  way  through  the 
mists  of  heresy  into  this  poor  English  peasant's 
soul.  Her  interior  life  was  one  of  keenest  joy, 
spent  moment  by  moment  in  the  presence  of  Our 
Lord,  and  in  a  realizing  conformity  of  her  will  to 
His. 

True  to  her  Protestant  creed  Martha  was  her 
own  spiritual  guide,  and  her  own  judgment  was  her 
sole  rule  of  faith.  Her  parents  had  been  Metho- 
dists, but  she  said  she  did  not  altogether  "  hold 
with  them;"  nor  did  she  attach  herself  to  any  par- 
ticular body.  Sometimes  she  attended  the  VVes- 
leyan  chapel,  but,  though  she  repudiated  the  idea 
of  being  a  "  churchwoman,"  she  generally  found 
her  way  to  the  parish  church.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  dignity  and  rhythm  of  the  grand  old 
prayers  which  appealed  to  her  soul.  She  loved 
the  hymns,  and  the  music  of  the  organ  even  as 
evoked  by  the  village  schoolmistress.  Her  nature 
liked  the  reserve,  monotonous  though  it  might  be, 
of  the  Church  of  England  service  better  than  the 
emotionalism  of  the  meeting-house.  It  is  true  that 
her  own  spiritual  life  was  based  entirely  on  the 
emotions,  but  she  preferred  to  keep  these  for  the 
privacy  of  her  own  fireside,  where,  while  she  sat 
and  worked  at  the  straw  plait  by  which  she  earned 


I08  JUST    WHAT    WAS    WANTED. 

her  living,  she  would  repeat  passages  of  Scripture 
and  verses  from  her  favorite  hymns,  till  the  emo- 
tions kindled  by  the  words  gave  a  look  almost  of 
inspiration  to  her  plain  countenance. 

It  was  strange  that  the  only  thing  for  which 
Martha's  gentle  heart  cherished  hatred  was  the 
Church  of  God,  the  spouse  of  Christ.  "  Do  I  not 
hate  them  that  hate  Thee  !  "  she  would  murmur 
fervently  as  she  mused  on  the  evil  deeds  of  this 
supposed  enemy  of  Christ.  Needless  to  say  that 
it  was  a  figment  of  her  brain,  or  rather  the  inven- 
tions of  those  less  innocent  than  herself,  on  which 
she  expended  her  jealous  hatred;  and  she  proved 
its  unreality  by  her  distinct  predilection  for  Catho- 
lic books  of  devotion  when,  it  stands  to  reason,  she 
did  not  know  they  were  Catholic.  In  her  small 
library  no  volume,  next  to  her  Bible,  was  so  well 
thumbed  as  the  "  Imitation  of  Christ,"  shorn,  as 
was  the  fashion  some  years  ago,  of  its  fourth  book. 
The  parson,  an  old-fashioned  Evangelical,  had 
been  shocked  by  the  sight  of  the  volume  on  her 
table,  and  told  her  it  was  a  Romish  abomination. 
"  Oh,  no,  sir,"  she  replied  with  grave  dignity,  "  I 
think  you  are  mistook.  It  is  all  about  the  love  of 
Christ  and  not  a  word  about  the  Virgin  Mary. 
Maybe,  sir,  you  have  not  read  it." — "  Not  I  ! "  he 
replied;  "but  I  know  all  about  It,  and  take  warn- 
ing, my  good  woman,  *  there's  death  In  the  pot  ! '  " 

Martha  habitually  resented  any  attempt  either  to 
interfere  with  her  or  offer  her  advice.    She  had  no 


LADY  AMABEL   A'EKR.  IO9 

hesitation  in  considering  her  own  opinion  as  her 
surest  guide,  and  was,  moreover,  strongly  pos- 
sessed of  the  logically  Protestant  qualities  of  self- 
respect  and  proper  pride,  which  among  those  out- 
side are  made  to  do  the  work  of  higher  motives. 
Humility,  with  her  sister  Obedience,  are  virtues  of 
which  the  Church  still  has  the  monopoly.  But,  on 
the  other  hand,  Martha  could  give  advice.  She 
knew  that  she  was  held  in  high  esteem  by  many 
of  her  neighbors,  who  considered  her  the  best 
Christian  in  the  place.  She  knew  the  position  she 
held,  and,  without  positive  spiritual  pride,  accepted 
it,  and,  when  others  turned  to  her  for  advice,  gave 
it,  and  thanked  the  Lord  for  having  spoken  to  her. 
It  was,  therefore,  with  no  surprise  that  she  re- 
ceived one  November  day  a  message  that  Florence 
Scott  wished  to  see  her  at  once.  It  is  true  that  her 
countenance  assumed  a  severe  expression.  She  had 
led  a  blameless,  perhaps  untempted,  life  herself,  and 
her  horror  of  such  sin  as  this  girl's  made  her  a  little 
stern  towards  the  sinner.  Poor  Florrie  !  hers  was  a 
sad  story.  Alas  !  it  was  no  new  thing  in  Appleton 
that  girls  should  fall  from  the  path  of  virtue,  yet  her 
fall  created  a  sensation.  Her  parents  were  so  well- 
to-do,  and  they  and  she  had  always  held  their  heads 
so  high,  that  something  better  was  expected  of  her. 
Scott,  the  father,  besides  being  the  owner  of  about 
ten  high-rented  cottages,  was  a  leading  member  of 
the  Baptist  community,  and  a  preacher.  As  for 
the  mother,  she  kept  a  maid-servant,  and  the  lace 


no  JUST   WHAT   WAS    WANTED. 

mittens  on  her  delicate  hands  proved  that  they 
were  never  soiled  with  manual  work.  Florence 
had  been  educated  at  a  genteel  boarding-school  at 
L ;  and  when  her  so-called  education  was  fin- 
ished she  had  been  placed  in  a  millinery  establish- 
ment in  the  same  town.  That  was  three  years 
before  this  November  afternoon,  and  she  had  held 
but  slight  communication  with  her  family  since. 
Then,  a  few  weeks  before,  she  had  come  home — 
and  what  a  home-coming  !  The  news  of  her 
shame  and  fall  had  been  as  a  thunderbolt  to  her 
parents,  and  close  on  the  news  came  the  girl  her- 
self. She  knocked  at  the  door  late  one  evening, 
and  fell  senseless  across  the  threshold,  and  they 
could  see  she  was  dying.  Even  the  sense  of  the 
disgrace  she  had  brought  on  them  could  not  make 
the  Scotts  turn  her  away,  and  now  she  lay  awaiting 
death  under  their  roof. 

When  Martha,  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Scott,  en- 
tered Florrie's  room,  she  could  plainly  see  that  the 
poor  girl's  days  were  numbered.  "  Martha,"  she 
said  in  a  feverish  whisper  as  soon  as  they  were 
alone,  "  you're  a  good  woman,  I  know,  and  care  for 
people's  souls  more  than  anything  else.     For  God's 

sake,  Martha,  go  to  B and  fetch  a  priest  to 

me." 

"  A  priest,  child,  a  Popish  priest  !  "  said  Martha 
in  astonishment.  "  But,  Florrie  girl,  you're  not  a 
Papist  ?  " 

"  I  am,  Martha,  I  am,"  the  dying  girl  gasped. 


LADY  AMABEL   KERR.  Ill 

"  It  was  two  years  ago — but  there,  I  have  no 
strength  to  tell  you  how  I  became  a  Catholic.  It 
was  before  all  this  sin  and  sorrow  came  on  me,  and 
I've  never  been  nigh  the  church  since.  And  now 
I'm  dying  ;  and  before  it  is  too  late  fetch  me  a 
priest." 

But  Martha  set  her  lips  tight.  "  I  don't  know 
how  I  could  abet  it,"  she  replied.  "  Put  your  trust 
in  the  Lord  Jesus,  poor  sinner.  He  is  your  salva- 
tion. Don't  put  your  trust  in  Popish  priests  and 
mummeries."  And,  so  saying,  she  knelt  down  by 
the  bed  and  began  to  pray  aloud. 

"  Oh,  don't,  Martha  !  What  shall  I  do,  what 
ever  shall  I  do  ?  "  moaned  poor  Florence.  "  I 
thought  you  would  have  done  it  for  me;  and  now 
God  help  me  !  "  With  a  gasp  the  poor  girl  fell 
back,  the  blood  streaming  from  her  mouth. 

As  Martha  raised  her  in  her  arms  a  feeling, 
strange  to  her,  of  diffidence  in  her  own  judgment 
came  over  her.  She  felt  overpowered  by  the  con- 
sciousness that  she  could  make  a  mistake,  and  she 
felt  herself  trembling  as  she  supported  the  sick  girl. 
Who  was  she,  an  inner  voice  seemed  to  say,  to  set 
herself  up  and  stand  between  a  soul  and  its  God  ? 
With  sudden  impulse  she  whispered  to  Florrie, 
"  I'll  do  it  for  you,"  and,  summoning  Mrs.  Scott  to 
her  daughter,  she  left  the  house  like  one  in  a 
dream. 

The  distance  to  B ,  at  which  town  the  only 

Catholic  church  within  reach  stood,  was  five  miles, 


112  JUST    WHAT    WAS    WANTED. 

and  travelling  was  weary  work,  for  the  November 
day  was  drawing  to  its  close  and  a  drizzling  rain  was 
falling;  and  the  thick  clay  soil  of  the  lanes  clung  to 
Martha's  boots,  squeaking  under  her  tread.  But 
she  heeded  neither  distance  nor  weather,  and 
tramped  along  borne  up  by  hidden  excitement. 

She  knew  the  way,  for  B was  a  market  town, 

and  the  chapel  was  in  the  main  street,  so  she  went 
without  loss  of  time  to  the  door  of  the  presbytery, 
and  pulled  the  bell  with  beating  heart. 

"  Is  the  Roman  Catholic  priest  within  ?  "  she 
asked  the  stout  and  beaming  housekeeper  who  an- 
swered her  summons. 

"  What,  Father  Maple  ?  "  she  replied.  "  Yes, 
he  is  in,  and  just  finished  his  bit  of  dinner.  You 
have  a  message  for  him  ?  Please  walk  in  and  take 
a  seat." 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Martha  found  herself 
standing  face  to  face  with  that  monster  of  iniquity 
— a  Popish  priest;  but  so  mythical  was  the  object 
of  her  detestation  that  she  forgot  to  feel  the  fear 
and  abhorrence  which  the  occasion  called  for.  She 
delivered  her  message  simply,  and,  as  briefly  as  she 
could,  acquainted  the  priest  with  poor  Florence's 
story,  and  then  prepared  to  take  her  departure. 

"  Pray  sit  down,  and  let  Mrs.  Malony  make  you 
a  cup  of  tea  after  your  long  walk,"  said  Father 
Maple;  but  Martha  refused  his  hospitality. 

"  No,  sir,  I  thank  you,"  she  replied,  with  an  in- 
ward feeling  of  repulsion  to  breaking  bread  under 


LADY  AMABEL    A'ERR.  113 

such  a  roof.  "  And  to  tell  you  the  honest  truth  I 
had  better  get  to  Scott's  before  you,  and  be  there 
when  you  arrive.  They  will  be  in  a  grand  taking, 
and  it's  best  I  should  be  there.  I've  brought  this 
on  them,  sir,  and  it's  naught  but  right  that  I  should 
be  there  to  help.  Once  you  get  to  the  village  you 
can't  mistake  the  house,  next  to  the  inn  at  the 
cross-roads,  standing  in  a  bit  of  garden  of  its  own. 
Good-evening,  sir,  and  pray  excuse  me  for 
troubling  you  on  such  a  night."  So  saying  she 
went  off  bravely,  her  holy  angel  and  a  quietly 
breathed  prayer  from  the  good  priest  accompany- 
ing her  on  the  way. 

Vague  rumors  of  Florence's  conversion  had 
reached  her  parents'  ears  a  twelvemonth  before,  but 
they  refused  to  pay  attention  to  them  ;  and  the 
girl's  sad  subsequent  story  and  actual  condition 
had  driven  the  gossip  from  their  mind.  This  after- 
noon, however,  during  Martha's  absence  Florence 
succeeded  in  breaking  the  truth  to  her  mother  ; 
but,  for  prudence'  sake,  she  said  nothing  about  her 
friend's  errand.  Nor  did  that  good  woman  feel 
bound  to  frustrate  the  object  of  her  journey  by  con- 
fiding it  to  Mrs.  Scott,  who,  she  knew  well,  would 
never  consent  to  admit  a  priest  into  her  house,  even 
were  her  dying  child  to  drag  herself  out  of  bed  and 
implore  her  on  her  knees.  Martha  felt  doubtful 
whether  Father  Maple  would  succeed  in  efifecting 
an  entrance;  nor  would  he  have  done  so  had  not 
the  hand  of  Providence  smoothed  the  way. 


/ 
114  JUST    WHAT    WAS    WANTED. 

By  the  time  the  priest  arrived  at  Appleton  the 
rain  was  coming  down  in  sheets.  He  was  clad  in  a 
long  mackintosh,  and  a  white  muffler  covered  half 
his  face,  so  that,  though  he  had  no  intention  to  dis- 
guise himself,  Mrs.  Scott  failed  to  recognize  the 
nature  of  her  visitor  ;  and  when  he  said  that  he 
had  come  to  see  her  daughter,  she  quietly  led  him 
up-stairs,  thinking  he  was  the  parish  doctor's  as- 
sistant. It  was  only  when  Florence  tried  to  raise 
herself  in  bed  and  cried  out:  "  Thank  God,  Father, 
you  have  come  !  "  that  the  truth  dawned  upon 
her. 

Then  a  scene  took  place  in  that  chamber  of  death 
which  would  baffle  description.  The  infuriated 
woman  lost  all  control  over  her  rage,  and  forgot  all 
motherly  feeling  for  the  girl;  and  first  calling 
shrilly  to  her  husband,  the  preacher,  to  come  to 
her  assistance,  she  poured  forth  torrents  of  the 
foulest  abuse  on  both  the  priest  and  her  dying 
child.  Never  had  she  upbraided  the  latter  for  her 
sin  as  she  upbraided  her  now;  and  it  was  apparent 
that  she  considered  Florrie's  conversion  a  far 
greater  disgrace  than  her  fall. 

"  O  mother  !  "  gasped  poor  Florence,  as  soon 
as  there  was  a  lull  in  the  storm  ;  "  leave  me.  I 
want  to  go  to  confession  and  make  my  peace  with 
God." 

"  Confession  !  "  screeched  the  virago.  "  Not 
while  Fm  here  will  I  let  you  do  such  devil's 
work."      And  Florrie,  worn  out,  turned,  sobbing 


LADY  AMABEL   KERR.  II5 

silently,  to  Martha  who  stood  by  her  side,  ill  at 
ease. 

Meanwhile  Preacher  Scott,  having  washed  him- 
self at  the  sink  and  put  on  his  best  coat,  appeared 
on  the  scene,  and,  at  his  wife's  bidding,  ordered 
Father  Maple  to  leave  the  house,  unless  he  wished 
him  to  fetch  the  village  policeman.  When  the 
priest  explained  civilly  and  temperately  exactly 
what  Florrie  wanted,  both  father  and  mother — he 
resolutely  and  she  furiously — declared  that  they 
would  stand  by  their  daughter's  bedside  till  she 
died  rather  than  leave  her  alone  to  go  to  confession 
and  sell  herself  to  the  devil.  They  evidently  meant 
what  they  said  ;  and  Father  Maple,  seeing 
Florence's  faint  and  exhausted  condition,  felt  that 
no  time  was  to  be  lost.  So,  leaning  over  her  bed, 
he  tried  as  best  he  could  in  the  midst  of  the  hubbub 
to  explain  that  she  must  make  an  act  of  contrition 
and  that  he  would  give  her  conditional  absolution. 
But  the  poor  sinful  girl,  rousing  her  energies,  cried 
out  that  she  must  and  would  make  her  confession, 
and,  turning  round,  clung  piteously  to  Martha 
Gray. 

Again  that  crushing  sense  of  her  own  fallibility 
came  over  Martha.  As  before,  a  sudden  impulse 
seized  her,  and  she  turned  on  the  foolish,  chatter- 
ing couple  with  a  look  of  majesty  and  indignation. 
"  Shame  on  you  both,"  she  said,  "  disturbing  the 
poor  thing's  last  moments  like  this,  when  she  wants 
to  prepare  her  soul  to  meet  her  God.     It's  not  for 


Il6  JUST    WHAT    WAS    WANTED. 

you  and  me  to  say  how  she  is  to  prepare.  It's  an 
awful  moment  for  a  soul,  and  each  of  us  has  got  to 
do  as  God  bids  us."  Then,  suiting  her  actions  to 
her  words,  she  placed  her  hands  first  on  the  sleek 
preacher  and  then  on  his  genteel  wife,  and,  with 
muscular  vigor,  pushed  them  outside  the  door, 
against  which  she  placed  her  back. 

"  There,  sir,"  she  said,  breathing  hard  with  the 
exertion  and  excitement,  "  there,  let  the  poor  girl 
do  as  she  wishes.     I'll  not  stand  in  her  way." 

"  But  we  want  you  to  leave  us  as  well,"  said 
Father  Maple,  who  could  scarcely  repress  a  smile 
at  the  situation.  But  Martha  hesitated,  and  her 
countenance  darkened. 

"  Well,  well,"  she  said  after  a  pause.  "  I'll  let 
be.  Maybe  all  the  things  that  people  say  are  not 
true.  I'll  trust  the  poor  dying  thing  to  you,  sir  ; 
and  I'll  see  you're  not  disturbed."  And  taking  up 
her  post  outside  she  stood  like  a  watchful  sentinel 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  though  neither  Mr.  nor 
Mrs.  Scott  attempted  any  further  interference. 

At  last  Father  Maple  opened  the  door  and  called 
Martha  in.  "  See  to  her,  Mrs.  Gray,  will  you  ?  " 
said  he.  "  And  try  to  keep  her  last  hours  free  from 
disturbance.  I  have  done  for  her  all  that  I  can, 
but  will  come  again  if  she  should  want  me;  but  I 
do  not,  myself,  think  she  will  be  here  many  hours. 
Will  you  send  me  a  line  to-morrow  to  tell  me  how 
she  is  ?  " 

"  I'll  be  sure  to  let  you  know  how  she  does,  sir," 


LADY  AMABEL   KERR.  Il7 

replied  Martha,  a  sense  of  so-called  self-respect  for- 
bidding her  to  tell  Father  Maple  that,  though  long 
practice  made  reading  easy  to  her,  the  construction 
of  a  letter  was  beyond  her.  "  But,"  she  added, 
"  I  fear  me  I  have  done  a  wrong  thing  by  the  poor 
girl  this  day." 

"  No,  Mrs.  Gray,"  replied  the  priest  gravely, 
"  you  have  done  a  good  work  by  her — a  work 
pleasing  to  God.  As  you  know,  our  blessed  Lord 
wall  not  let  the  gift  of  even  a  cup  of  cold  water  pass 
unrewarded,  so  be  sure  you  will  get  your  reward. 
Good-night."  So  saying  he  went  down-stairs,  and, 
silently  raising  his  hat  to  the  sullen  couple  in  the 
kitchen,  passed  out  swiftly  into  the  rain  and  dark- 
ness. 

Martha  slept  but  little  that  night.  Her  heart 
beat  and  her  pulses  throbbed  Avith  unwonted  emo- 
tions. The  face  of  her  God  was  hidden  from  her 
as  by  a  cloud;  and  as  she  tossed  to  and  fro  on  her 
pillow,  with  prayer  on  her  lips,  she  wondered 
whether  she  had  sinned  against  Him  by  human 
compassion,  and  He  had  turned  from  her  in  anger. 
But  through  her  prayers  for  pardon  the  priest's 
parting  words  rang  in  her  ears,  and  again  and 
again  she  seemed  to  hear  the  sentence  of  the  Divine 
Judge:  "  Inasmuch  as  you  have  done  it  unto  one 
of  the  least  of  these  My  brethren  you  have  done  it 
unto  Me." 

As  soon  as  she  had  cooked  and  eaten  her  frugal 
breakfast   Martha  hastened   to  Florrie's  bedside. 


I 

Il8  /(/Sr    WHAT    WAS    WANTED. 

The  parents  were  silent  and  sullen  in  their  recep- 
tion, though  they  did  not  try  to  stop  her  from  go- 
ing to  the  girl.  But  when  she  was  half  way  up 
the  stairs  Mrs.  Scott  hissed  out  after  her  the  word 
"  Papist  !  "  Poor  Martha,  to  think  that  she  should 
have  lived  to  be  called  a  Papist  !  If  she  had,  un- 
consciously to  herself,  cherished  a  desire  to  ques- 
tion Florence,  a  glance  showed  her  that  the  time 
for  conversation  was  passed,  and  the  girl  lay,  half- 
conscious  and  speechless,  awaiting  the  last  dread 
moment.  But  the  Ibok  of  absorbed  rest  and  peace 
on  her  countenance  could  not  fail  to  strike  her  visi- 
tor. A  small  crucifix  lay  near  her  helpless  hand. 
It  was  the  first  that  Martha  had  ever  seen,  and  she 
tried  to  turn  her  eyes  from  it  with  abhorrence  as  an 
object  of  foolish  idolatry;  but,  in  spite  of  herself, 
tears  of  tenderness  welled  up  in  her  eyes  as  she 
looked  at  the  efifigy  of  her  dying  Lord.  Florrie 
saw  the  struggle  and  smiled  faintly.  "  Oh,  I  am  so 
happy  !  "  she  murmured.  "  How  good  you  have 
been  to  me,  Martha  !  Peace  at  last — all — all  for- 
given." 

For  some  hours  Martha  sat  by  Florrie's  bed, 
listening  to  her  wanderings,  till,  with  a  last  ray  of 
coherence,  the  dying  girl  cried  out,  "  Sweet  Jesus, 
mercy!  "  and  yielded  up  her  spirit  to  Him.  Martha 
was  alone  with  her,  praying  on  her  knees,  when  she 
died.  The  parents,  though  mindful  that  their 
daughter  should  lack  no  necessary  care,  expressed 
their  moral  indignation  at  her  conduct  of  the  pre- 


LADY  AMABEL   KERR.  I IQ 

vious  day  by  a  studious  avoidance  of  any  sign  of  af- 
fection. So  Martha  closed  her  eyes,  and,  seeing 
the  crucifix  between  her  fingers,  put  it  in  her 
pocket  with  a  nameless  sense  of  reverence.  It 
might  be  an  object  of  idolatry,  but  none  the  less  it 
represented  Christ;  and  she  could  not  leave  it  to  be 
profaned,  as  she  knew  it  would  be,  by  the  bigotry 
of  the  Scotts.  Surely,  the  cups  of  cold  water  were 
multiplying  in  her  hand. 

"  I  said  I'd  tell  him,"  muttered  Martha  to  herself, 
as  she  sat  over  her  early  and  solitary  tea;  "  so  I 
must."     She  sighed  with  weariness  as  she  thought 

of  the  long,  muddy  tramp  to  B .     Her  bad 

night  and  the  emotions  of  the  last  twenty-four 
hours  had  worn  her  out;  yet  she  would  not  flinch 
from  what  she  considered  a  duty.  But  weary  in 
very  truth  she  was  when  she  reached  Father 
Maple's  house  ;  and  she  could  have  cried  with 
vexation  when,  having  knocked  two  or  three  times 
without  response,  she  was  convinced  the  house  was 
untenanted. 

"  They're  in  yon,"  called  out  a  little  boy  from 
the  other  side  of  the  street,  pointing  as  he  spoke 
down  a  passage  by  the  side  of  the  presbytery.  She 
walked  down  this  with  no  thought  beyond  finding 
some  one  to  whom  to  deliver  her  message;  but  al- 
most before  she  knew  where  she  was  she  found  her- 
self inside  the  Catholic  chapel,  the  altar  of  which, 
though  she  knew  it  not,  was  prepared  for  Benedic- 


I20  JUST    WHAT    WAS    WANTED. 

tion.  Some  dozen  people  were  already  in  the 
church,  and  several  pairs  of  children's  eyes  gazed 
curiously  at  her.  This  confused  her,  and  thinking 
that  her  exit  might  cause  disturbance  in  a  "  place 
of  worship,"  Martha  made  her  way  to  the  further 
end  of  one  of  the  benches  and  sat  down.  Had  a 
service  been  going  on  her  conscience  might  have 
forbidden  the  action,  but  as  it  was  she  had  no 
scruple.  By  the  time  the  candles  were  lighted, 
and  the  priest  and  acolytes  had  filed  in,  many  wor- 
shippers had  crowded  in,  and  Martha  found  herself 
absolutely  hemmed  into  her  seat.  In  a  moment 
ever  blessed  to  her  she  decided  that  the  evil  of  stay- 
ing where  she  was  was  less  than  that  of  forcing  her 
way  out. 

Our  blessed  Lord  has  many  ways  of  speaking  to 
the  souls  of  those  who  are  willing  to  listen  to  Him; 
and,  among  the  thousands  who  have  accepted  His 
invitation  into  the  one  fold,  no  two  are  led  in  pre- 
cisely the  same  way.  Some  are  converted  through 
their  reason,  others  through  their  emotions ;  some 
are  convinced  by  Scripture,  others  by  the  facts  of 
history.  To  some  few  Our  Lady  has  appeared  in 
vision,  while  to  others — thrice-blessed  they — Our 
Lord  deigns  to  speak  silently  from  the  tabernacle  in 
tones  which,  though  voiceless,  will  take  no  refusal. 
Such  was  His  blessed  way  with  plain  Martha  Gray, 
who  had  been  so  faithful  to  Him  according  to  the 
light  given  to  her. 

Who  could  attempt  to  describe  what  took  place 


LA  D  Y  A  MA  BEL   KERR.  1 2 1 

in  her  soul  ?  The  secrets  of  God  cannot  be  put 
into  words  ;  and  she  herself,  when  questioned 
later,  could  scarcely  tell  what  happened  to  her. 
She  never  knew  how  or  at  what  moment  she  fell 
on  her  knees  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
She  dared  not  stir,  so  strong  was  her  realization  of 
the  presence  of  our  blessed  Lord;  and  she  felt  that 
had  she  raised  her  eyes  she  would  have  seen  that 
which  no  man  or  woman  could  look  on.  She  had 
no  thought  about  the  Blessed  Sacrament;  indeed 
she  knew  nothing  about  that  mystery  of  mysteries 
beyond  a  vague  and  shuddering  horror  of  what  she 
had  been  taught  to  call  the  wafer-god  of  the  Ro- 
manists. 

Benediction  was  over,  but  Martha  had  scarcely 
found  out  that  any  service  was  going  on.  Before 
her  shrouded  eyes  the  ceremonies  had  passed  un- 
noticed; and  the  hearty,  discordant  singing  of  the 
congregation  had  made  no  impression  on  ears 
which  were  listening  to  the  voice  of  God.  The 
subsequent  silence  was  equally  unperceived,  and 
she  knelt  on  in  the  church,  alone  with  Him  who 
had  spoken  to  her  heart. 

About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  Father  Maple 
came  in  to  lock  up  the  chapel.  Seeing  a  woman 
absorbed  in  prayer  he  was  loath  to  disturb  her;  but 
he  had  a  distant  parishioner  to  visit  that  evening, 
and  could  not  stand  on  ceremony,  so,  having 
fidgeted  about  and  jangled  his  keys  noisily  without 
producing  the  desired  effect,  he  touched  her  gently 


122  JUST    WHAT    WAS    WANTED. 

on  the  shoulder,  thinking  that  she  might  have 
fallen  asleep.  "  You,  Mrs.  Gray  ?  "  he  exclaimed, 
as  he  recognized  the  startled  face  which  met  his 
gaze.     "  What  brings  you  here  ?  " 

"  I  came  to  tell  you  as  how  Florrie  was  dead," 
she  replied,  passing  her  hand  over  her  brow  as 
though  she  were  dazed,  while  she  remained  on  her 
knees.  "  But  oh,  sir,"  she  continued,  "  the  Lord 
Jesus  has  been  very  nigh  me." 

"  What  ?  "  said  the  priest  softly,  "  and  has  the 
cup  of  cold  water  been  rewarded  already  ?  " 

"  The  Lord  is  in  this  place,  and  I  knew  it  not," 
Martha  went  on,  readily  expressing  herself  in  the 
words  of  Scripture.     "  Tell  me,  sir,  is  He  here  ?  " 

"Yes,  He  is  here,"  replied  Father  Maple,  with  an 
awe-struck  feeling  of  gratitude,  which  all  who  live 
by  faith  must  have  when  something  approaching 
to  sight  is  vouchsafed  to  them. 

"  The  Lord  is,  I  know,  not  far  from  every  one  of 
us,"  she  continued,  still  speaking  like  one  in  a 
dream  ;  "  but  is  He  nigher  to  us  here  in  this 
place  ?  "  The  priest  silently  bowed  his  head,  and 
Martha  went  on  :  "I  think  what  you  say  is  the 
truth,  sir.  I  know  the  Lord  is  always  nigh.  Day 
after  day  as  I  sat  at  my  work  I  have  known  He  was 
at  hand,  and  night  after  night  I  have  communed 
with  Him  on  my  bed;  but  never  has  He  been  nigh 
me  as  He  has  been  in  this  place.  Why,  sir,  I  was 
afeared  to  raise  my  eyes  lest  I  should  meet  His  look. 
It  was  as  if  He  was  speaking  to  me,  though,  mind 


LADY  AMABEL   KERR,  123 

you,  never  a  word  did  I  hear.  But  oh,  sir  !  I 
couldn't  have  met  His  look  " — and  here  her  voice 
shook  and  her  lips  quivered — "  it  was  if  He  was 
displeased  with  me;  as  if  He  knew  of  something  as 
I  hadn't  done  for  Him,  and  ought  to  have  done." 

The  priest  had  seated  himself  on  the  bench  in 
front  of  Martha,  so  that  he  could  listen  to  her  as  she 
knelt;  but  he  made  no  reply  to  her  words,  reserv- 
ing what  he  had  to  say  till  the  Holy  Ghost  had 
finished  speaking  to  her;  and  after  a  pause  she  con- 
tinued: "  Sir,  something  has  happened  to  me  since 
I  have  been  here.  I  feel  like  as  if  I  had  been  struck 
to  the  ground  as  Paul  was.  I  feel  such  a  sinner. 
and  I  never  knew  it  before.  I  know  we  must  all 
be  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb,  but  I  thought 
the  Lord  had  chosen  and  saved  me.  But  as  He 
stood  by  me  just  now,  as  I  know  He  did,  I  felt  like 
an  unclean  thing,  and  I  know  not  where  to  find  a 
Pool  of  Siloam  in  which  I  may  wash  and  be  clean. 
I  know  nothing.  I  thought  I  had  been  taught  of 
God,  but  I  know  nothing,  nothing.  Sir  " — she 
added,  looking  up  in  the  priest's  face  with  a  quiver- 
ing lip,  which  gave  her  the  expression  of  a  little 
child — "  Sir,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

She  had  been  speaking  fluently  and  excitedly, 
but  the  sound  of  her  own  helpless  question — the 
same  that  millions  and  millions  of  perplexed  souls 
have  uttered  since  it  was  first  put  to  St.  Peter  by 
the  conscience-stricken  Jews — struck  her  ears,  and 
she  burst  into  silent  weeping,  with  a  sense  of  ac- 


/ 

124  JUST    WHAT    WAS    WANTED. 

cepted  humiliation  which  opened  for  her  the 
golden  gates  of  humility. 

"  Mrs.  Gray,"  said  the  priest,  seeing  that  the  mo- 
ment had  come  for  him  to  speak,  "  you  scarcely 
know  yet  how  good  God  has  been  to  you  to-day  ; 
for  you  have  no  idea  what  God's  gifts  to  men  are." 

"  I'm  very  unlearn'd,  sir,"  she  said,  in  a  voice 
broken  by  her  tears.     "  Can  I  learn  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  if  you  are  willing.  But  would 
you  consent  to  own  that  you  have  been  in  the 
wrong  all  your  life  ?  " 

"  I  feel  just  shook,  sir,"  was  her  reply.  "  I  feel 
as  if  I  was  no  better  than  a  child;  but  I  know  the 
Lord  Jesus  requires  somewhat  of  me." 

"  You  say,  Mrs.  Gray,"  the  priest  continued, 
after  lifting  up  his  heart  to  God,  "  that  when  our 
blessed  Lord  was,  as  you  felt,  standing  by  you,  He 
seemed  to  reproach  you  ?  " 

"  Ay,  sir,  it  was  just  like  that,  and  I've  got  to 
find  out  and  do  as  He  wants  me." 

"  Perhaps,"  resumed  Father  Maple,  "  He  meant 
to  show  you  His  sorrow  that  you  should  be  con- 
tented to  live  without  all  those  good  things  He 
died  to  give  you." 

Martha  gripped  the  priest's  arm  almost  painfully. 
"  What  are  they,  sir,  that  I  may  have  them  ?  I 
know  nothing  about  them." 

"  Ah,  Mrs.  Gray,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  "  it  would 
take  a  long,  long  time  to  tell  you  about  all  the 
wonderful   things  our  blessed   Lord  left  for  His 


LADY  AMABEL   KERR.  125 

children  when  He  went  to  heaven.  It  would  take 
days  and  days  to  tell  you  about  His  holy  Catholic 
Church  which  He  left  to  teach  us  when  He  Himself 
was  no  longer  here  to  speak  to  us.  He  charged 
her  to  take  care  of  us  all  through  our  earthly  pil- 
grimage, to  forgive  us  our  sins  in  His  name,  and 
feed  our  souls  in  a  way  I  cannot  tell  you  now." 

"  It  makes  the  Lord  very  nigh,"  said  Martha 
thoughtfully.  "  It  seems  as  if  we  could  stretch  out 
our  hands  back  all  these  long  years,  and  touch 
Him." 

"  He  is  nigher  than  you  can  ever  guess.  Will 
you  come  back  another  day  and  hear  more  ?  " 

"  Ay,  sir,  sure  I  will,"  she  replied  with  simple 
alacrity.  "  It  seems  just  what  was  wanting."  She 
now  rose  to  her  feet,  and  Father  Maple  could  see 
that  her  eyes  were  full  of  happy  tears.  "  I  must 
not  detain  you  longer  to-night,  for  I've  took  up  a 
lot  of  your  time,"  she  went  on,  with  the  habitual 
diffidence  of  those  who  have  spent  their  lives  in 
ministering  to  others  and  have  never  been  min- 
istered unto.  "  But  be  sure  I'll  come  back  and 
hear  more  about  those  gifts  Our  Lord  Jesus  left  for 
us,  if  so  be  it  will  not  be  troubling  you  over  much. 
Good-evening,  sir,  and  thank  you  kindly." 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  give  the  sequel  to  the 
events  of  that  evening.  Suffice  it  to  say  that,  eager 
to  learn,  and  hungering  for  God's  gifts,  simple 
Martha  Gray  thought  nothing  of  tramping  day 


126  JUST    WHAT    WAS    WANTED. 

after  day  to  B ,  regardless  of  the  rains  and  fogs 

of  autumn  or  the  frosts  and  snows  of  winter,  and 
received  the  word  of  God  into  "  a  good  and  very 
good  heart."  As  she  learned  more  about  the 
eternal  mysteries,  she  could  scarcely  believe  that 
such  joy  was  meant  for  her.  And  when,  at  last, 
having  been  washed  in  the  Pool  of  Siloam,  she  was 
admitted  to  the  divine  banquet,  she  said  amid  her 
gentle,  happy  tears,  "  It  seems  quite  natural  like." 
Her  words,  singularly  inappropriate  as  they  were 
for  describing  that  which  is  so  essentially  and  aw- 
fully supernatural,  expressed  to  the  best  of  her 
ability  the  readiness  of  her  faithful,  Christian  soul 
to  apprehend  the  highest  mysteries  of  God,  and  the 
instinctive  way  in  which  it  made  its  home  in  the 
Sacred  Heart  of  Jesus.  It  was,  indeed,  as  she  had 
said,  just  what  was  wanted. 


R.  B.  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES. 

R.  B.  Sheridan  Knowles  is  the  eldest  and  only  sur- 
viving son  of  the  late  Richard  Brinsley  Knowles,  a  barris- 
ter, the  author  of  "  The  Maiden  Aunt,"  and  a  well-known 
London  journalist.  He  is  the  grandson  of  James  Sheridan 
Knowles,  author  of  "•  Virginius,"  "The  Hunchback,"  "The 
Love  Chase,"  etc.,  and  great-grandson  of  James  Knowles. 
the  lexicographer,  whose  mother,  Hester  Knowles,  /lee 
Sheridan,  was  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Thomas  Sheridan  of 
Quilca,  the  friend  of  Swift,  and  grandfather  of  Richard  Brins- 
ley Sheridan,  the  author  of  "  The  School  for  Scandal." 

R.  B.  Sheridan  Knowles  received  his  education  at  the 
college  of  the  Rosminian  Fathers,  at  Ratcliffe,  in  Leicester- 
shire, and  on  the  completion  of   his  college  course  entered 


the  Civil  Service.  His  contributions  to  literature  consist 
mainly  of  essays,  sketches,  and  reviews,  which  have  appeared 
in  various  journals  and  periodicals.  His  most  recent,  as 
also  his  most  important  work,  is  thfe  novel  "  Glencoonoge," 
a  story  of  Irish  life,  which  having  run  serially  for  a  year  in 
The  Mofit/i,  was  republished  in  three  volumes  by  the  famous 
Edinburgh  house  of  Wm.  Blackwood  &  Sons,  and  in  one 
volume  in.  America. 

"  Hyacinth's  Regrets"  has  been  written  by  Mr.  Knowles 
specially  for  this  collection. 


BY  R.  B.  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES. 
I. 

If  the  heroine  of  this  story  was  a  very  self-willed 
woman  it  may  fairly  be  urged  in  her  excuse  that 
everything  had  combined  to  make  her  so.  Proba- 
bly she  had  more  than  her  natural  share  of  self-will 
by  inheritance,  for  her  parents — sober,  industrious 
people — were  both  teetotallers,  and  you  may  have 
observed  that  that  cult  has  a  strengthening,  not  to 
say  stubbornizing,  effect  upon  the  wills  of  those 
who  practise  it.  Then,  too.  Hyacinth  was  an  only 
child,  and  by  consequence  much  prized  and  cher- 
ished by  her  parents,  who  kept  her  aloof  from  the 
companionship  of  other  children  of  her  own  age; 
thus  guarding  the  girl  from  the  dangers  of  such 
companionship,  and  also  from  its  educating  and 
correcting  influences.  If  this  was  the  policy  of 
John  Smith  and  Emma  his  wife  in  regard  to  their 
child  in  those  days,  when  their  position  was  only 
lifted  above  that  in  which  life  was  a  struggle  for  ex- 
istence by  the  practice  of  rigid  economy,  it  is  not 
to  be  supposed  that  their  fastidiousness  in  regard 

129 


130  HYACINTH'S  REGRETS. 

to  the  manner  of  little  Hyacinth's  bringing-up 
should  grow  less  as  the  bread-winner  advanced 
from  the  position  of  first-counterman  to  being  a 
shopkeeper  on  his  own  account,  and  then  a  mer- 
chant with  a  steadily  growing  connection.  "Thank 
goodness,"  said  they  in  effect,  "  fortune  has  favored 
us  soon  enough  to  make  it  unnecessary  to  send  the 
girl  to  a  boarding-school  or  convent,  where  the 
time  is,  as  often  as  not,  wasted,  and  girls  are  turned 
out  with  the  merest  smattering  of  education."  Hy- 
acinth had  a  governess  all  to  herself,  and  the  best 
masters;  but  none  of  them  were  able  to  master  her. 
Her  wishes,  indeed,  eventually  decided  everything 
— what  she  would  learn,  how  much,  and  how  long. 
Sometimes,  no  doubt,  she  was  in  the  right,  as  when 
she  struck  against  the  singing  and  music  lessons. 
The  girl  had  no  music  in  her,  and  it  was  sheer  im- 
posture on  the  part  of  Signor  Pagano  to  declare 
that  after  another  five-and-twenty,  thirty,  forty  les- 
sons (at  a  guinea  each)  the  voice  would  begin  to 
form,  and  both  she  and  her  friends  would  be  aston- 
ished. The  dismissal  of  the  music-master  made 
other  professors  very  careful  not  to  force  or  thwart 
the  wishes  of  an  only  child. 

I  think  that  Hyacinth  was  the  most  graceful 
dancer  I  ever  saw.  In  fact,  the  grace  of  her  bear- 
ing and  the  appropriateness  of  her  manner  to  every 
different  occasion  showed  how  thoroughly  well 
drilled  she  had  been  in  the  matter  of  deportment. 
To  see  her  coming  down  the  nave  with  her  people 


R.  B.   SHERIDAN  KNOWI.ES.  13I 

as  the  congregation  filed  out  of  church  after  High 
Mass  on  Sundays  was  a  pleasure — so  fresh  she 
looked,  so  sweetly  demure;  her  glances — rare  and 
under  perfect  control — all  bespoke  a  well-dis- 
ciplined character.  "  She  will  make  a  good 
match,"  that  was  what  every  one  said. 

Well,  young  Aubrey  Lushington's  position  was 
not  bad  socially.  He  was  of  the  family  of  the  Earls 
of  Lushington,  and  to  be  allied  to  nobility  is  some- 
thing, even  though  you  may  be  only  the  younger 
son  of  a  younger  son,  without  a  profession  or  visible 
means  of  subsistence.  Hyacinth  felt  that  these  lat- 
ter conditions  were  the  drawbacks  destined  in  her 
case  to  prevent  the  course  of  true  love  from  running 
smooth.  How  often  had  she  not  heard  her  father 
pooh-pooh  the  exaggerated  estimate  in  which  she 
and  her  mother  were  disposed  to  hold  birth  and  so- 
cial position  !  If  there  had  only  been  himself  to 
please  he  would  have  left  society  and  Its  fancies 
severely  alone.  But  to  his  wife  and  daughter  these 
things  were  as  the  breath  of  life,  to  the  former  by 
contrast  with  the  poverty  and  dulness  of  her  early 
circumstances,  to  the  latter  as  the  bud  of  promise 
which  would  presently  expand  into  a  brilliant  fu- 
ture. 

If  evening  parties  were  delightful  at  first  for  their 
own  sake,  wdiat  an  added  relish  did  they  not  pos- 
sess when,  having  met  Aubrey  Lushington  two  or 
three  times,  Hyacinth  began  to  feel  that  he  was 
quite  the  nicest  of  all  her  partners,  dancing  so  much 


132  HYACINTH'S  REGRETS. 

better  than  any  one  else,  and  so  much  more  interest- 
ing in  his  conversation  between  the  dances.  He 
had  seen  so  much  of  Hfe  though  he  was  so  young. 
How  clever  he  was  !  And  you  could  perceive 
from  the  ease  of  his  manner,  and  the  polished  read- 
iness of  his  remarks,  above  all,  from  his  marked 
deference  to  her,  that  he  was  of  noble  blood.  Hy- 
acinth and  Aubrey  became  quite  friendly,  quite 
confidential;  they  knew  of  each  other's  engagements 
for  weeks  ahead;  and  by  degrees  the  prospect  of 
coming  entertainments  lost  their  attractiveness  to 
Hyacinth  if  Aubrey  was  not  going  too.  On  these 
days  Hyacinth  would  infallibly  mope.  But  if  it 
was  an  evening  when  Aubrey  was  to  be  of  the 
party,  what  anxiety  beforehand  about  the  choice  of 
the  dress  !  what  thought  in  the  combination  of 
colors,  in  the  selection  of  flowers  !  and  at  night 
what  cosy  chats  in  the  subdued  light  upon  the 
stairs  !  what  heavenly  waltzings  !  what  joyous  sup- 
pers ! 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Riddles  to  Mrs.  Smith  one 
day,  *'  are  you  encouraging  the  growing  intimacy 
between  Hyacinth  and  young  Mr.  Lushington  ?  " 

Mrs.  Smith  had  noticed  something,  but  did  not 
think  there  was  anything  serious  in  it — a  little  flir- 
tation, nothing  more.  She  did  not  wish,  unless 
there  was  absolute  need,  to  cross  her  daughter  on 
the  subject,  she  being  a  dear  child,  so  sensitive  and 
highly  strung,  that  the  very  greatest  care  was  nec- 
essary in  finding  the  smallest  fault  with  her. 


i?.  B.  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES.  133 

Mrs.  Riddles  looked  at  ]\Irs.  Smith  incredu- 
lously.    Then  with  a  sudden  burst — 

''  Everybody  is  talking  of  it.  People  say  they 
are  engaged — not  that  I  thought  it  at  all  likely." 

*'I  should  think  not,  indeed,"  answered  Mrs. 
Smith  indignantly.  "  Why,  the  young  man  has 
no  profession,  and  very  little  means," 

"  Has  he  any  ?  I  should  be  very  much  surprised 
if  he  is  not  heavily  in  debt.  How  can  it  be  other- 
wise if  he  has  no  means  and  no  profession  ?  And 
leading  a  fast  life,  too  !  " 

Mrs.  Smith  was  horrified. 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  other,  laughing.  "  Well, 
what  else  can  you  expect  ? — it  runs  in  the  family. 

His  father  was "  and  she  proceeded  to  relate  to 

Mrs.  Smith  some  of  the  Lushington  family  history 
in  a  whisper. 

Mrs.  Smith  returned  home  in  a  state  of  con- 
sternation, revolving  within  herself  how  she  might 
best  restrain  her  daughter  from  walking  into  the 
unsuspected  gulf  which  lay  yawning  before 
her. 

If  was  an  ofT  night.  Hyacinth  and  her  mother 
were  alone  together  in  the  drawing-room.  Mrs. 
Smith  uneasily  eyed  her  daughter,  who  sat  looking 
into  the  fire,  somewhat  discontented  because  they 
were  not  going  anywhere. 

"  Hyacinth,  do  you  care  for  young  Mr.  Lushing- 
ton ?  " 

The  girl  was  taken  by  surprise,  and  after  a  mo- 


134  HYACINTH'S  REGRETS. 

merit's  reflection  answered  with  somewhat  bated 
breath  : 

"  I  hke  him  as  a  partner,  he  dances  beautifully." 

The  mother  was  silent  for  a  few  moments  and 
then  said: 

"  Hyacinth "  and  then  stopped. 

"  Well,  mother  ?  "  said  the  breathless  girl. 

"  He  would  not  make  a  good  partner  for  life. 
You  are  dancing  too  much  with  him.  People  are 
beginning  to  talk." 

"  I  wish  people  would  attend  to  their  own  affairs. 
What  right  have  they  to  talk  about  what  does  not 
concern  them  ?  " 

"  People  will  talk  if  you  give  them  the  chance, 
or  even  without  a  chance." 

"  What  do  they  say  of  him,  mother  ?  " 

"  They  say  that  he  leads  an  idle  life — and — and 
a  wild  life.  Do  not  seek  to  inquire  too  closely  ; 
there  is  more  evil  in  the  world  than  it  is  necessary 
for  you  to  know  of  yet." 

"  Ah,  mother,  believe  me  he  is  not  blind  to  his 
own  faults.  He  has  bewailed  them  to  me.  He 
says  he  has  no  one  to  care  for  him,  and  that  he  will 
never  be  what  he  ought  to  be  until  he  is  married  to 
some  good  girl.  I  am  sure,"  added  Hyacinth,  with 
suddenly  assumed  indifference,  "  I  wish  he  could 
find  such  a  one.  I  don't  know  what  nobler  mission 
a  girl  can  have  than  to  reform  a  man." 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  mother,  suppressing  any 
manifestation    of    her    alarm,    now    thoroughly 


7?.  B.   SHERIDAN   KNOWLES.  135 

aroused,  "  reformation  is  much  needed  in  that 
quarter." 

That  night  Mrs.  Smith  opened  her  mind  to  her 
husband.  He  blamed  her  for  having  been  so  bhnd 
to  what  had  been  going  forward,  and  yet  he  was 
more  good-humored  over  the  matter  than  she  had 
expected. 

''  It  is  strange,"  said  he,  "  that  I  should  hear 
about  this  on  the  very  day  when  what  I  have  been 
desiring  for  many  months  past  should  suddenly 
have  happened.  This  afternoon,  as  I  was  about  to 
leave  the  warehouse,  who  should  come  in  but 
young  Fergusson.  From  his  nervousness  I  half- 
guessed  what  he  was  after.  I  was  right,  too.  He 
has  proposed  for  Hyacinth." 

"  Thank  goodness  !  This  will  help  us  out  of  the 
difficulty,  I  hope." 

"  I  could  not  desire  a  better  husband  for  the 
girl.  In  fact,  I  had  set  my  heart  upon  it — and  so, 
it  seems,  had  he.  He  had  just  been  offered — what 
do  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  guess,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  overjoyed. 

"  A  junior  partnership  in  his  firm,  and  the  first 
thing  he  does  is  to  come  like  a  man  and  ask  to  be 
allowed  to  share  his  good  fortune  with  our  girl.  A 
sterling  fellow  !  I  always  liked  him.  I  picked 
him  out  from  all  the  men  I  knew  and  said,  *  Thofs 
the  man  I  should  like  to  ask  me  for  my  Cythie.' 
And  she  captivated  him,  the  little  wench — though 
she  didn't  know  it.     And  I  don't  know  that  she 


136  HYACINTirS  REGRETS. 

deserves  him,  if  she  can  think  of  throwing  herself 
away  on  a  creature  hke  young  Lushington.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  about  him  ?  He  must  never 
be  asked  here  again,  of  course." 

"  Oh,  no  !  Nor  will  we  go  again  anywhere  this 
season  where  she  will  be  likely  to  meet  him.  But 
say  nothing  of  all  this  to  Hyacinth.  I  do  think  she 
is  more  perverse  than  most  girls,  and  there  is  no 
telling  what  she  will  do  if  she  is  openly  thwarted." 

11. 

They  were  very  astute,  these  people,  but  they 
underrated  the  intelligence  of  the  young  thing 
whose  future  they  were  designing  to  shape.  Noth- 
ing, indeed,  was  said  :  but  wdien  at  dinner  next 
evening  Mr.  Smith  was  full  of  the  sudden  good-for- 
tune which  had  befallen  Mr.  Fergusson  and  en- 
larged upon  it  with  much  gusto,  and  said  that  Mr. 
Fergusson  was  coming  to  dinner  the  following 
evening  and  they  would  hear  more;  and  when  two 
days  later,  being  due  that  evening  at  Lady  Lyster's, 
where  Aubrey  was  to  have  been,  Mrs.  Smith  told 
Hyacinth  that  Mr.  Fergusson  had  very  kindly  in- 
vited them  to  dine  at  the  Criterion,  and  to  go  with 
him  to  the  opera  afterwards;  and  they  would  go 
there  in  preference  to  the  Lysters',  as  dear  papa 
w^ould  never  go  to  dances,  and  he  enjoyed  dinners 
above  all  things,  and  she  was  afraid  they  had  been 
leaving  him  too  much  alone  lately;  and  then  Mr. 


jR.  B.  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES.  137 

Fergusson  was  very  attentive  and  continually  the 
only  gentleman  of  the  party,  and  upon  occasion 
after  occasion  some  glib  reason  or  another  was 
given  why  the  engagement  to  the  house  where 
Aubrey  was  to  be  was  suspended  in  favor  of  one  at 
which  Mr.  Fergusson  was  to  be  either  the  guest  or 
the  host  (whether  as  host  or  as  guest  he  was  equally 
attentive — and  equally  detestable,  Hyacinth 
thought),  Hyacinth,  though  nothing  was  said,  un- 
derstood, and  said — nothing.  She  disguised  her 
thoughts  under  the  placid  expression  of  face  she 
knew  how  to  assume,  but  the  thought  in  her  mind 
was,  "  I'll  let  them  see  whether  or  not  I'm  going 
to  be  treated  as  a  child." 

It  gave  Mrs.  Smith  great  pleasure  to  observe  her 
tranquil  and  submissive  behavior,  and  also  to  no- 
tice that  the  girl  showed  signs  of  becoming  devout. 
It  had  never  been  Hyacinth's  habit  to  attend  after- 
noon service,  until  it  happened  just  at  this  time 
that  her  mother,  seeing  her  one  day  quite  distressed 
with  ennui,  and  hearing  the  church-bell  ringing, 
said,  "  Do,  my  child,  cultivate  a  spirit  of  self-de- 
nial and  go  to  Rosary  " — a  suggestion  which  to 
her  surprise  the  girl  eagerly  caught  at.  And  what 
was  more.  Hyacinth  kept  the  practice  up.  It  was 
quite  usual  for  Hyacinth  after  that  to  say,  yawning 
wearily,  "  Ach  !  I  want  a  walk.  I  think  I'll  just 
stroll  round  to  church."  Until  Mr.  Fergusson 
had  begun  to  come  so  much,  and  with  intentions 
hardly  to  be  mistaken,  the  girl  had  never  betrayed 


138  HYACINTH'S  REGRETS. 

SO  much  seriousness.  Mrs.  Smith  was  delighted 
She  thought  it  a  good  sign,  an  evidence,  in  fact, 
that  Hyacinth  was  seeking  the  illumination  of 
Heaven  in  deciding  the  momentous  question  of 
her  marriage. 

Mrs.  Smith's  haphazard  suggestion  had  indeed 
been  a  Hght  to  Hyacinth's  mind  in  her  perplexity 
to  checkmate  the  combination  which  was  keeping 
her  from  meeting  Aul^rey  Lushington.  The  ser- 
vice-hour was  now  usually  spent  by  her  in  company 
with  Aubrey  in  a  first-class  carriage  of  a  circle  train 
on  the  underground  railway.  There  they  ex- 
changed indignant  sympathy;  there  they  vowed 
that  nothing  should  ever  part  them;  there  they  ma- 
tured their  plans. 

Elated  with  her  success  and  Aubrey's  devoted- 
ness,  Hyacinth  became  more  and  more  good-tem- 
pered, and  the  better  tempered  she  was,  the  more 
pleased  were  her  father  and  mother  with  her.  But 
their  approval  was  pulled  up  very  short  a  little  later 
when,  in  the  calmest  but  most  conclusive  manner 
possible,  she  declined  Mr.  Fergusson's  proposal. 
Her  conduct  was  altogether  unaccountable,  until 
it  came  out  that  her  afifections  were  already  en- 
gaged, and  to  Aubrey  Lushington.  It  was  in  a 
quiet  conversation  with  her  mother,  who,  after 
some  deft  probing,  had  extracted  the  truth.  Mrs. 
Smith  told  her  daughter  the  worst  things  she  had 
heard  about  Aubrey;  Mr.  Smith  said  he  would 
horsewhip  the  young  man  if  he  dared  to  come 


J^.  B.  SHERIDAN  KXOIVLES.  1 39 

near  the  house;  both  were  agreed  that  they  would 
rather  see  her  dead  than  married  to  such  a  man. 
This  last  was  the  reply  to  her  argument  that  all 
men  worthy  of  the  name  were  a  little  wild  at  first 
before  they  settled  down,  and  everybody  said  such 
always  made  the  best  husbands.  Stubborn-willed 
as  Hyacinth  was,  she  began  to  have  misgivings 
that  she  was  acting  rashly;  that  in  this  matter  her 
parents  would  be  as  stubborn  as  herself,  and  that 
she  would  never  gain  their  consent.  Had  it  not 
been  for  Aubrey's  encouragement  she  had  perhaps 
given  way.  But  he  gauged  the  situation  pretty 
accurately,  perceiving  that  Mr.  Smith  was  not  the 
kind  of  man  who  would  forever  refuse  to  forgive 
his  only  child,  however  erring;  and  that  the  moth- 
er's influence  would  confirm  his  natural  tendency 
to  relent.  He  did  not  say  so  to  Hyacinth.  To 
her  the  purport  of  his  remarks  ran  thus  :  *'  My 
father  will  help  us,  Cythie,  if  yours  won't;  he  has 
influence;  he  will  get  me  an  appointment.  I  ask 
for  nothing  but  yourself,  dearest;  I  am  content 
with  poverty  if  I  have  you,  for  in  you  is  all  my  hap- 
piness, my  one  chance  of  salvation." 

"  Noble  fellow,"  thought  Hyacinth,  as  she 
thought  and  rethought  over  these  words,  "  shall  I 
refuse  to  save  him  ?  Can  I  hesitate  longer  to 
grasp  his  drowning  hand  held  out  to  me  for  suc- 
cor ?  " 

Some  little  time  passed  and  then  it  was  dis- 
covered   that    Hyacinth     was    meeting    Aubrey 


140  HYACINTH'S  REGRETS. 

Lushington  clandestinely.  To  her  parents'  re- 
proaches she  uttered  not  a  word.  She  was 
desired  to  withdraw  to  her  room  and  think  the 
matter  over.  And  in  her  absence  her  father 
and  mother  considered  what  was  to  be  done.  They 
would  adjure  her  at  least  not  to  act  precipitately: 
and  in  the  mean  time  she  must  be  taken  abroad  out 
of  reach  of  this  danger — and  at  once,  before  she 
could  communicate  again  with  Aubrey.  Time 
might  thus  be  gained,  and  the  infatuation  have  a 
chance  of  wearing  off.  This  conclusion  arrived  at, 
]\Trs.  Smith  followed  her  daughter  up-stairs.  Hy- 
acinth was  not  in  her  room.  An  instinctive  alarm 
seized  the  mother.  She  went  hurriedly  from  room 
to  room  and  from  floor  to  floor,  calling,  but  re- 
ceiving no  answer.  In  descending  the  stairs  Mrs. 
Smith  saw  that  the  hall-door  was  slightly  ajar,  she 
stood  beside  it  petrified,  but  perfectly  collected. 
After  looking  up  and  down  the  street  she  went  up- 
stairs to  her  husband. 

"  I  am  afraid  Hyacinth  has  left  the  house,"  she 
said  quietly. 

The  father  started  up.     "  Impossible  !  " 

"  I  have  hunted  high  and  low;  and  just  now 
found  the  hall-door  half  open." 

The  two  stood  looking  at  each  other,  both  pale, 
and  neither  daring  to  utter  the  thought  that  was  in 
both  their  minds. 

"  Perhaps  she  has  gone  to  church,"  said  Mrs. 


F.  B.   SHERIDAN  KNOWLES.  I4I 

Smith,  clutching"  at  an  inspiration  that  had  just  oc- 
curred to  her. 

"  We  will  take  a  hansom,"  said  Mr.  Smith.  "  Di 
you  know  where — where  he  lives  ?  " 

"  No;  but  Lady  Lyster  perhaps  can  tell  us." 

They  drove  fo  the  church.  The  windows  were 
dark,  the  doors  closed,  there  was  no  service  that 
night. 

Then  to  Lady  Lyster's.     She  was  gone  out. 

Another  friend,  however,  had  the  name  of  Au- 
brey's club  in  her  address-book.  Thither  they 
drove.  He  had  been  there  that  afternoon,  but 
was  not  there  now.  His  private  address  ?  The 
secretary  had  left  for  the  day.  It  could  not  be  fur- 
nished. 

What  were  they  to  do  ?  Perhaps  she  had  re- 
turned home.  But  when  they  got  there — no,  she 
had  not  come  back. 

Those  two  people  sat  up  the  whole  night  waiting 
— silent  for  the  most  part.  They  could  not  see  their 
way  to  immediate  further  action.  Suggestions 
arose  to  their  minds  only  to  be  seen  to  be  futile  as 
soon  as  uttered.  What  a  night  !  In  it  they  experi- 
enced, as  it  were,  the  crumbling-  into  utter  ruin  of 
all  the  results  of  their  self-abnegation,  and  the  suc- 
cess of  their  lives.  A  horrible  certainty  was  in  their 
minds:  they  were  disgraced  forever  and  ever;  never 
again  would  they  be  able  to  hold  up  their  heads; 
life  would  be  no  more  worth  living,  nor  further 
strivings  of  any  avail. 


142  HYACINTH'S  REGRETS. 

The  longest  night  wears  away.  The  morning 
came,  and,  late  in  the  long  morning,  the  knowledge 
of  the  truth.  The  postman  was  the  messenger  of 
fate.  They  heard  his  rat-tat  coming  down  the 
street;  the  wretched  father  and  mother  waited  in 
the  hall  with  the  letter-box  unlocked.  A  packet  fell 
on  the  floor,  preceding  the  double  knock.  They 
hurried  into  the  dining-room  and  shut  the  door. 
There  were  two  documents  in  the  envelope,  a  let- 
ter and — oh,  welcome  sight  ! — a  marriage  certifi- 
cate. 

III. 

Aubrey  and  Hyacinth  had  been  married  for  a 
fortnight.  The  astonishing  news,  if  received  a  few 
hours  before,  would  have  been  accounted  disas- 
trous; now  it  was  actually  as  welcome  as  a  reprieve 
to  a  condemned  man.  Compared  with  the  possi- 
bility which  had  been  in  their  minds  the  whole  of 
that  long  night,  it  seemed  as  if  everything  was 
gained  in  receiving  this  assurance  that  the  girl's 
honor  was  saved.  Yet  presently  the  first  glow  of 
this  feeling  began  to  fade,  and  as  the  facts  came 
out,  much  of  their  anger  against  their  child  re- 
turned, mixed  with  and  checked  by  gloomy  fore- 
bodings for  her  future.  Aubrey  and  Hyacinth  had 
been  married  at  the  registry  office.  Hyacinth 
begged  her  parents'  forgiveness.  She  was  terri- 
fied, she  said,  by  an  indefinite  fear  of  what  was 
going  to  happen.     Knowing  what  she  did,  their 


K.  B.  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES.  I43 

cold  anger  at  discovering  that  she  had  been  meet- 
ing Aubrey  had  made  her  too  h'ightened  to  tell 
them  face  to  face  that  she  was  already  married  to 
him;  and  in  her  scare  she  could  think  of  no  course 
but  to  fly  to  her  husband. 

Though  somewhat  revived,  both  father  and 
mother  were  quite  downcast.  Married  at  the  reg- 
istry office  !  without  the  blessing  of  the  Church  ! 
the  sacraments  unapproached,  the  aid  of  God  un- 
asked ! 

Well  !  at  least  the  worst  was  escaped.  The  girl 
was  not  ruined,  nor  were  they  hopelessly  disgraced 
in  their  old  age.  Other  things  might  be  retrieved. 
They  would  summon  up  what  heart  they  could, 
and  set  to  work  to  make  the  best  of  things. 

There  were  not  wanting  elements  of  hope  in  the 
situation.  Aubrey  had  a  very  taking  manner  with 
him  when  he  chose,  and  Mr.  Smith's  spirits  began 
to  be  raised  after  a  time  by  the  readiness  v^ith  which 
his  son-in-law  fell  in  with  his  proposals.  The  mer- 
chant decided  to  take  Aubrey  into  his  office  and 
give  him  a  chance  of  learning  the  business.  He 
would  allow  the  pair  only  a  moderate  income;  for 
the  young  man  must  be  stimulated  in  his  exertions 
by  the  thought  that  advancement  into  easier  cir- 
cumstances lay  in  his  own  hands.  For  the  present 
he  must  work  with  nose  to  the  grindstone;  society 
and  its  pastimes  must  be  eschewed  for  the  most 
part.  Mr.  Smith  had  further  designs  at  the  back 
of  his  head  which  he  thought  it  best  not  as  yet  to 


144  HYACINTH'S  REGRETS. 

divulge,  until  he  should  see  what  aptitude  for  busi- 
ness and  what  perseverance  the  young  man  might 
display;  but  his  hope  was  that  Aubrey  would  show 
steadiness  and  capacity  enough  to  justify  his  being 
taken  later  on  into  partnership,  and  become  in  time 
the  inheritor  of  the  business — a  reasonable  arrange- 
ment enough,  seeing  that  the  merchant  had  no  son 
of  his  own. 

Though  Mr.  Smith  said  nothing  of  his  projects, 
the  expediency  and  probability  of  such  a  result 
suggested  itself  at  once  to  both  the  young  people. 
Aubrey,  indeed,  thought  it  so  obvious  and  inevita- 
ble that  he  rather  pooh-poohed  the  anxiety  of  Hy- 
acinth, who  was  very  desirous  that  Aubrey  should 
justify  her  choice  of  him.  In  truth.  Hyacinth's  anx- 
iety was  warranted,  as  Aubrey  had  everything  to 
learn;  and  it  presently  became  terribly  tedious  to 
this  man,  who  had  always  been  an  idler,  to  live 
without  the  gayety  of  the  life  to  which  he  was  ac- 
customed, and  spend  monotonous  evenings  in  sup- 
plying the  defects  of  training  which  stood  in  the 
way  of  his  properly  devoting  wearisome  days  to 
the  vulgarity  of  a  mercantile  life.  As  time  went 
on  he  grew  more  and  more  restive  under  his  fet- 
ters, and  often  wished  that  he  had  either  never  seen 
Hyacinth,  or  that  she  had  had  her  money  before  he 
married  her. 

At  the  end  of  a  year  he  was  no  longer  the  person 
of  the  first  importance  in  that  small  household,  but 
another  bearing  his  name.     To  Hyacinth  nursing 


JC.  B.   SHERIDAN  KNOVVLES.  1 45 

her  child,  Hfe  presented  itself  in  a  new  and  more 
responsible  aspect,  and  thinking  now  of  her  son, 
and  hardly  any  longer  of  herself,  she  would  sit  ru- 
minating and  forecasting  in  his  behoof.  One  day, 
if  Aubrey  did  as  well  as  he  ought  to,  this  child 
would  inherit  her  father's  business,  and  she  began 
to  take  a  keener  and  more  pressing  interest  regard- 
ing the  chances  of  Aubrey's  proving  fit  to  pre- 
serve and  to  transmit  the  business  to  their  son. 

So  it  was  doubly  galling  to  find  from  what  her 
mother  said,  and  from  her  father's  lessened  friend- 
liness with  Aubrey  whenever  they  now  went  home, 
that  things  were  not  going  well  at  the  office.  But 
when  she  broached  the  subject — of  utmost  impor- 
tance in  her  mind — Aubrey  would  turn  crusty.  He 
had  had  enough  of  badgering  and  faultfinding  dur- 
ing the  day,  and,  after  a  few  times,  when  he  found 
Hyacinth  drifting  towards  her  favorite  topic  he 
would  put  his  foot  down. 

His  refusal  to  discuss  and  be  interested  in  a  topic 
which  had  become  almost  more  interesting  to  Hya- 
cinth than  any  other  led  to  repeated  disagreements 
which  left  the  one  dogged  and  the  other  sullen, 
and  made  evenings  at  home  anything  but  pleasant. 

Hyacinth  would  go  to  her  father's. 

Aubrey  would  put  on  his  hat  and  go  for  a  walk. 

It  was  often  late  before  Aubrey  got  home.  Hy- 
acinth had  gone  to  bed.     What  did  she  care  ? 

Before  long  it  happened  sometimes  that  Aubrey 
did  not  come  home  all  night. 


146  HYACINTH'S  REGRETS. 

Hyacinth  would  now  sit  up  and  wait  for  Aubrey, 
enduring  much.  If  she  lay  down,  her  tortured 
mind  would  not  let  her  sleep.  Self-reproach  was 
busy  at  her  ear. 

"  You  married  this  man  with  your  eyes  open," 
it  said.  "  You  were  warned  that  he  was  a  spend- 
thrift, leading-  a  bad  Hfe,  without  occupation  or 
means,  coming,  too,  from  a  bad  stock.  If  things 
have  gone  wrong  with  him  you  may  thank  your- 
self, partly  for  a  mistaken  choice  obstinately  per- 
sisted in,  partly  for  the  want  of  good-tempered 
management,  by  which  you  have  driven  him  back 
to  his  former  courses." 

Hyacinth  lived  all  that  time  of  her  courtship 
over  again.  Everything  that  had  been  sweet  was 
turned  to  gall  in  the  retrospect.  "  Heavens," 
she  would  exclaim,  "  did  any  woman  ever  before 
make  such  shipwreck  of  her  happiness  !  "  One 
thing  was  certain,  they  must  part.  Better  the 
lonely  home,  better  solitude  with  her  child,  than 
live  with  her  husband  any  longer.  Even  consid- 
eration for  the  child  did  not  come  in  here  to  keep 
the  parents  together.  Aubrey  did  not  care  for  the 
boy.  Hyacinth  felt  that  contact  with  the  father 
would  be  contamination  to  the  child.  Separation 
was  imperative.  Aubrey  had  furnished  abundant 
cause.  There  was  no  lack  of  money  to  carry 
through  the  necessary  legalities;  and  in  this  matter, 
too,  Hyacinth  had  her  own  way. 


E.  B.   SHERIDAN  KNOWLES.  147 


IV. 

It  is  some  years  later.  Mrs.  Smith  is  dead,  and 
Hyacinth  keeps  house  for  her  father,  who  has  aged 
more  than  might  have  been  expected  in  an  interval 
not  very  long.  The  failure  of  Aubrey  Lushington 
to  rise  to  the  opportunities  which  his  marriage 
brought  him,  and  the  decline  of  Mr.  Smith's  own 
health,  have  made  the  latter  anxious  for  some  time 
past  to  enter  into  arrangements  which  shall  relieve 
him  on  advantageous  terms  of  the  sole  responsi- 
bihty  of  his  business.  His  desire  has  just  been 
obtained,  thanks  to  the  co-operation  of  that  very 
Mr.  Fergusson  whose  ambition  it  had  been  for- 
merly to  become  his  son-in-law.  "  A  strange  thing 
it  is,"  ruminated  Mr.  Smith,  "  that  my  designs, 
blown  to  fragments  by  the  perversity  of  my  un- 
fortunate girl,  should  after  all  these  years  be  partly 
realized.  It  would  be  stranger  still,  it  would  be 
inconceivably  happy,  if  after  so  long  a  delay  they 
should  be  carried  out  as  fully  as  I  had  once  in- 
tended. I  should  die  happy.  Poor  Emma  !  My 
delight  would  have  only  one  drawback — that  she 
did  not  live  to  ree  the  realization  of  our  dreams  !  " 

Thenceforth  the  firms  of  John  Smith  &  Co.  and 
Davids,  Beale  &  Fergusson  (in  the  latter  Mr.  Fer- 
gusson was  now  the  sole  surviving  principal)  were 
known  under  the  style  and  title  of  Smith  &  Fergus- 
son;  and  it  was  In  connection  with  this  renewed 


148  HYACINTH'S  REGRETS. 

community  of  interests  that  Mr.  Fergusson  becam.e 
once  more  an  occasional  visitor  at  the  home  of  his 
own  old  friend. 

It  was  not  very  long  before  Hyacinth,  regarding 
the  visitor  with  eyes  now  disillusioned,  began  to 
perceive  what  a  chance  of  happiness  she  had  wil- 
fully thrown  away.  That  apparent  coldness,  hard- 
ness, and  stolidity  which  had  seemed  so  unattrac- 
tive when  contrasted  with  the  lightness,  brightness, 
and  abandon  of  Aubrey's  manner  now  seemed  to 
be  only  so  much  trustworthiness — the  one  thing, 
as  she  now  thought,  to  be  desired  above  all  others. 
It  would  have  been  no  unhappy  fate,  she  felt,  to 
have  been  allied  to  a  character  stronger  than  her 
own — strong  and  prudent  as  this  man's.  It  is 
good,  thought  she,  for  a  child  when  he  has  such  a 
father. 

For  her  boy,  whom  she  loved  far  more  than  any- 
thing else  in  the  world,  caused  her  no  little  anx- 
iety. At  times  he  was  as  good  as  gold,  and  then 
she  could  not  fondle  him  enough.  At  others 
he  made  her  very  unhappy,  and  she  was  at  her  wits' 
ends  to  know  what  to  do  with  him.  She  would 
coax  him  into  good  behavior;  she  would  promise 
him  things,  and  bribe  him  to  be  good — feeling  all 
the  time  that  this  was  not  the  right  way  nor  for 
the  boy's  benefit.  And  often  in  her  perplexity  how 
to  treat  the  boy  she  would  think  that  the  solution 
of  her  difficulties  would  have  been  easy  if  she  had 
married  Mr.  Fergusson  instead  of  the  other. 


/•.  B.  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES.  1 49 

And  then  how  true  ]\Ir.  Fergusson  had  been  to 
his  first  love  !  It  gave  her  real  pleasure  to  remem- 
ber that  in  all  the  seven  years  that  had  passed  he 
had  never  married.  People  often  said  he  would 
die  an  old  bachelor,  and  involuntarily  the  words 
would  escape  as  they  looked  at  her.  "  What  a 
pity,  my  dear,  what  a  pity  !  "  Meaning  that  it  was 
clear  she  was  the  only  woman  he  had  ever  cared 
for,  and  that  she  had  thrown  herself  away.  Ah  ! 
no  one  knew  the  pity  of  it  better  than  she  did;  and 
yet  there  was  some  comfort,  too,  in  the  fact  that 
Mr.  Fergusson  had  never  married. 

She  never  met  her  husband  now,  and  in  the  most 
imaginative  of  her  thoughts  the  possibility  of  their 
ever  coming  together  again  did  not  present  itself. 
Sometimes  she  heard  of  him,  but  the  disdain  in 
her  demeanor  when  his  name  was  mentioned  was 
not  an  encouragement  to  any  one  to  speak  about 
him.  But  one  day  some  one  said,  "  You  have 
heard,  of  course,  how  ill  your  husband  has  been. 
No  ?  They  say  he  is  a  perfect  wreck,"  Hyacinth 
was  interested  at  once,  and  eagerly  heard  all  that 
day  that  there  was  to  be  told.  Not  that  she 
adopted  the  suggestion  that  she  should  go  to  see 
him.  How  could  she — and  would  he  be  willing 
either — now  that  he  had  contracted  other  ties  ? 
But  the  news  of  his  illness  did  not  depress  her,  and 
she  thought  more  often  and  with  more  gratitude 
how  faithful  Fergusson  had  been  to  his  first  love. 

This  constant  thought   enlightened  her  about 


150  HYACINTH'S  REGRETS. 

many  things.  It  explained  why  it  was  that  Mr. 
Fergiisson  was  so  respectful  and  so  careful  in  his 
demeanor.  Loving  her  as  he  still  did,  he  would 
not  for  the  world  suggest  by  his  manner  that  it 
was  possible  for  her,  a  married  woman,  to  return 
his  love.  "  How  like  him  !  "  she  would  think,  not 
unpleased,  "  How  noble  !  how  like  him  !  " 

Mr.  Fergusson  grew  to  be  so  much  in  Hyacinth's 
thoughts  that  it  was  as  it  were  by  a  sort  of  inevita- 
ble attraction  that  one  day  when  she  had  opened 
the  paper  her  eye  fell  straight  and  at  once  upon  his 
name  in  a  column  of  miscellaneous  news.  She  be- 
gan eagerly  to  read,  and  suddenly  her  heart 
stopped  still.  She  turned  pale  and  laid  the  paper 
down,  hardly  able  to  breathe.  Was  it  the  deaths 
column  her  eye  had  fallen  upon  ?  Was  it  the  an- 
nouncement of  the  death  of  her  husband  ? 

When  she  had  recovered  she  took  the  paper  up 
again  and  read  the  announcement  through — of  the 
forthcoming  marriage  of  James  Fergusson,  Esq., 
of  the  firm  of  Smith  &  Fergusson,  in  the  City  of 
London,  to  Lady  Gwendoline  Acres,  the  youngest 
daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Acres. 

Irrevocably  lost  !  So  sharp  a  pang  shot  through 
her  and  was  succeeded  by  such  a  heaviness  of  spirit 
that  she  awoke  startled  and  humiliated,  to  perceive 
to  how  great  an  extent  the  thought  had  been  in 
her  mind  that  the  mistake  she  had  made  years  ago 
might  one  day  be  repaired,  and  how  much  it  had 
been  the  source  of  her  increased  cheerfulness  lately. 


E.  B.  SHERIDAN  KNOVVLES.  15I 

Stealing  a  glance  at  her  father,  she  observed  that 
his  head  was  resting  on  his  hand  which  was  shading 
his  eyes,  and  his  attitude  suggested  some  dejec- 
tion. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  father  ?  " 
Mr.  Smith  suddenly  came  to  himself  and  said  : 
"  Nothing — nothing,"   then  taking  up  a  letter 
which  was  beside  him  he  tossed  it  over,  saying, 
"  There's  a  bit  of  unexpected  news." 

It  was  a  short  note  from  Mr.  Fergusson  announc- 
ing his  engagement.  Mr.  Smith  watched  his 
daughter  while  she  read. 

"  So  your  old  flame  has  been  consoled  at  last. 
Those  people  didn't  let  the  grass  grow  under  their 
feet  before  they  announced  it  in  the  papers.  Hav- 
ing caught  their  fish  I  suppose  they  don't  intend 
to  let  him  slip — and  they're  wise.  Ah  !  my  girl, 
you  might  have  had  him  once.  You  let  a  prize  slip 
there.  But,"  he  added  with  the  resignation  of  a 
man  growing  old  and  tired  of  fighting  with  fate, 
*'  there's  no  use  in  talking.  What's  done  can't  be 
undone." 

He  got  up  and  went  away,  and  the  matter  was 
not  referred  to  again  by  either.  It  was  more  toler- 
able so.  Hyacinth's  feelings  on  the  subject  were 
too  keen  to  be  able  to  endure  the  most  distant  ref- 
erence to  it.  She  avoided  meeting  anybody  who 
would  be  likely  to  speak  of  it,  and  became  for  a 
time  something  of  a  recluse;  which  perhaps  les- 
sened her  humiliation,  but  not  the  poignancy  of  her 


152  HYACINTH'S  REGRETS. 

grief,   which  could  find   only  the  relief  afforded 
by  secret,  hopeless  sighs  and  tears. 


V. 


About  a  year  after  Mr.  Fergusson's  marriage 
Mrs.  Lushington  became  a  widow.  The  circum- 
stance affected  her  but  little;  her  freedom  now 
availed  her  nothing.  Her  father's  death,  however, 
when  it  happened  a  few  years  later,  made  a  great 
difference,  cutting  her  quite  adrift  from  early  as- 
sociations and  the  anchorage  of  her  life.  It  nipped 
her  very  near,  too,  in  the  disappointment  and  sense 
of  slight  she  felt  at  finding  that  she  was  only  to 
have  a  life  interest  in  his  property,  which  was  se- 
cured to  her  son  under  the  trusteeship  of  Mr.  Fer- 
gusson.  Should  young  Aubrey  die  she  was  to 
have  absolute  control  over  everything.  But  this 
proviso  by  no  means  reconciled  her  to  the  implied 
reproach  contained  in  the  terms  of  her  father's  will; 
and  that  irrevocable  testament  must  always  remain 
to  perpetuate  the  slight  feeling  of  estrangement  it 
had  created.  Besides,  the  condition  of  her  son's 
death  was  one  which  deprived  the  prospect  of  ac- 
quiring the  full  disposal  of  her  inheritance  of  all 
attraction.  If  any  doubt  on  this  point  had  existed 
in  any  one's  mind  it  would  have  been  laid  to  rest 
when  about  his  twelfth  year  young  Aubrey  fell  a 
victim  to  mortal  illness. 

The  boy  had  always  been  delicate,  and  the  doc- 


R.  B.  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES.  153 

tors  looked  serious,  Mrs.  Liishington  was  beside 
herself.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was 
moved  to  the  depths  of  her  soul,  and  being  so 
moved  she  sought  for  aid  there  where  people  turn 
when  there  seems  no  earthly  hope  left.  She  visited 
churches,  she  had  Masses  said,  she  made  vows,  she 
put  abundant  alms  in  the  poor-box — that  the  boy's 
life  might  be  spared.  One  day  there  was  a  consul- 
tation, and  the  doctors  told  her  that  she  must  pre- 
pare for  the  worst.  When  they  were  gone,  she 
threw  herself  upon  her  knees  and  adjured  God  that 
He  would  spare  her  her  son.  He  was  the  only 
thing  she  had.  Life  without  him  would  be  worse 
than  death.  "  Anything,  O  God  !  anything  but 
that  !  "  Everything  else  she  would  endure  gladly, 
suffer  any  loss  or  privation,  give  up  all  else,  if  only 
her  child  was  left  to  her. 

The  doctors  could  not  make  it  out.  The  disease 
did  not  take  the  turn  they  had  thought  inevitable; 
and  slowly  they  began  to  take  a  less  gloomy  view. 
Even  their  modified  forebodings  were  belied;  for 
the  boy  recovered  and  did  not  bear  the  traces  they 
had  prophesied.  What  joy  was  not  the  mother's 
as  young  Aubrey  progressed  with  slow  but  al- 
most uninterruptedly  continuous  advance  towards 
recovery  !  What  were  now  her  former  regrets, 
her  previous  mistakes  !  Cobwebs,  which  this 
threatened  sorrow  and  this  anxious  joy  had  swept 
out  of  remembrance.  Never  should  those  things 
she  had  pined  for  take  possession  of  her  again.  This 


154  HYACINTH'S  REGREtS. 

great  sorrow  had  carried  her  far  ahead,  leaving  the 
old  days  and  the  old  life  far  behind  and  grown 
small  in  the  distance.  The  future  now  !  For  her 
the  future,  her  boy's  future;  in  him  were  all  her 
hopes;  for  him  alone  would  she  live.  Hardly 
would  she  let  him  out  of  her  sight.  How  dreary 
was  one  half-day  without  him  !  Besides,  his  escape 
had  been  too  narrow  for  her  to  trust  him  out  of 
reach  of  her  careful  watching.  Aubrey  had  the 
best  masters,  the  most  careful  professional  training 
at  home.  What  though  he  did  not  take  kindly  to 
studies,  what  if  her  ambitious  hopes  were  being 
continually  clouded  by  his  want  of  application. 
Had  she  not  promised  that  she  would  bear  any- 
thing else  if  only  she  were  not  deprived  of  him  ? 

It  happened  more  than  once  that  Mrs.  Lushing- 
ton  as  she  looked  at  her  son  felt  something  like  a 
stab  at  seeing  how  like  he  was,  just  that  moment, 
to  his  father.  But  the  next  instant  as  he  changed 
his  position  the  likeness  had  vanished,  and  she  had 
shaken  herself  free  of  the  omen  which  had  scared 
her. 

The  recollection  of  the  danger  in  the  past  which 
she  had  escaped,  the  uncertainty  and  occasional 
suggestions  of  evil  that  might  l)e  in  store  for  her  in 
the  future,  made  her  at  this  time  fairly  contented 
with  things  as  they  were.  But  she  never  fully  re- 
alized how  happy  these  days  had  been  until  later  on 
when  she  looked  back  on  them.  In  the  interval 
her  boy,  who  had  been  all  her  own,  her  constant 


R.  B.  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES.  155 

companion,  whose  studies  she  had  shared,  studying 
harder  than  he  that  she  might  make  his  task  easier, 
who  had  ahvays  gone  with  her  to  church,  who  had 
been  content  to  take  no  amusement  but  what  she 
could  share  in,  has  grown  up,  has  developed  a  taste 
for  freedom,  a  disposition  to  live  his  own  life,  to 
choose  his  own  friends,  and  go  his  own  way. 

Mrs.  Lushington  now  passes  many  hours  alone, 
brooding  over  her  loss  of  influence  over  the  young- 
man,  wondering  where  he  is,  what  he  is  doing  and 
in  whose  company;  when  he  will  come  home;  and 
whether  he  will  ever  again  be  to  her  as  he  was  be- 
fore. He  does  not  talk  freely  and  openly  about 
himself  and  his  doings.  The  friends  he  brings  to 
the  house  she  does  not  like,  and  tells  him  so.  He 
does  not  bring  them  again,  and  is  less  often  at 
home.  As  time  passes  she  comes  to  be  aware  by 
degrees  and  by  various  means  that  Aubrey  drinks, 
that  he  gambles,  that  he  is  leading  a  fast  life. 

Often  in  her  long  solitary  vigils,  angry  and  dis- 
appointed, her  mind  would  go  back  to  the  time 
when,  as  a  boy,  his  life  was  in  danger;  and  she 
would  remember  her  own  anguish  and  how  she  had 
taken  Heaven  by  storm,  as  it  were,  demanding  and 
receiving  her  son's  life.  Would  she  have  been 
quite  so  clamorous,  she  wondered,  if  she  could  have 
foreseen  that  it  was  only  for  this,  after  all,  that  she 
was  asking  ? 

A  friend  to  whom  she  confided  her  grief  said  : 
"  My  dear  Mrs.  Lushington,  you  take  the  matter 


156  HYACINTH'S  REGRETS. 

too  seriously.  It  is  of  course  very  sad,  and  I  do 
so  sympathize  with  you.  But  Aubrey  is  no  excep- 
tion. Look  at  most  of  our  young  men  who  are 
good  for  anything,  how  wild  they  are  at  first.  Look 
at  most  of  our  old  men  who  have  attained  to  any 
sort  of  eminence,  have  they  not  generally  in  their 
time  sown  wild  oats  ?  We  must  not  make  too 
much  of  these  things.  If  others  have  come 
out  without  much  permanent  damage  from  such  a 
life  as  Aubrey  is  leading,  why  should  not  he,  in 
course  of  time  ?  Depend  upon  it,  you  will  see  him 
a  steady,  sober,  family  man  yet." 

Mrs.  Lushington  extracted  what  comfort  she 
could  out  of  these  reflections;  but  they  did  not  afford 
her  much.  Aubrey  could  never  again  be  the  inno- 
cent boy  she  had  worshipped  and  caressed.  What- 
ever might  hereafter  come,  she  never  could  forget 
that  he  had  preferred  all  and  sundry  to  her,  that  he 
had  been  completely  indifferent  to  her  happiness, 
while  he  went  away  and  enjoyed  himself  in  all  sorts 
of  disreputable  ways.  Nor  was  his  company  when 
he  bestowed  it  much  of  a  pleasure  now.  He  pes- 
tered her  for  money,  and  at  length  she  found  her- 
self becoming  straitened.  Besides,  by  supplying 
him  with  the  sinews  of  war  was  she  not  helping  him 
to  continue  in  his  evil  courses  ?  She  would  not  do 
it;  and  there  followed  pleadings  and  refusals,  argu- 
ments and  counter-arguments  between  mother  and 
son.  One  day  he  left  the  house  in  a  rage  vowing 
he  would  never  return.     Hyacinth  pulled  herself 


J^.  B.   SHERIDAN  KNOWLES.  1 57 

together,  hardened  herself,  declared  that  she  was 
not  going  to  give  in  to  threats;  did  not  shed  a  sin- 
gle tear,  said  she  would  no  longer  sit  down  and 
fret  and  pine  away  her  life.  There  and  then  she 
ordered  the  carriage,  dressed  with  unusual  care, 
and  drove  out  and  made  some  calls.  At  the  root 
of  this  strength  was  the  knowledge  that,  not  having 
the  means  to  keep  long  away  from  her,  Aubrey 
must  sooner  or  later — probably  sooner — return 
home.  But  when  days  passed,  when  weeks  passed 
and  he  did  not  return,  all  her  strength  oozed  away, 
and  she  could  bear  to  remain  in  ignorance  of  his 
proceedings  no  longer.  She  employed  a  detective, 
and  a  pretty  tale  the  detective  brought  her.  He 
was  enjoying  himself  at  Margate  with  a  ballet-girl 
from  the  Empire.  He  was  very  flush  of  money. 
How  does  he  come  by  it  ?  Why,  the  young  gen- 
tleman has  plenty  of  money,  has  he  not  ?  No  ? 
The  detective  was  puzzled.  He  dismissed  Mrs. 
Lushington's  suggestion  that  the  ballet-girl  sup- 
plied the  money  with  an  easy  "  Not  likely;"  and 
later  on  returned  more  fully  informed.  Aubrey 
had  realized  his  expectations.  "  And  I  should 
think,  ma'am,  at  a  great  sacrifice,  if  it's  true,  as  you 
say,  that  his  expectations  are  dependent  on  the 
length  of  your  Hfe." 

"  It  would  have  been  better,"  this  was  the  con- 
stant and  bitter  thought  arising  out  of  all  Mrs. 
Lushington's  cogitations — "  it  would  have  been 
better  if  he  had  died  that  time." 


158  HYACINTH'S  REG  RET sl 


VI. 


It  goes  without  saying  that  young  Aubrey  had 
reahzed  his  expectations  at  a  heavy  loss.  The 
idiot  would  agree  to  any  proposal  without  under- 
standing it,  and  sign  any  paper  without  reading  it, 
it  only  the  signature  were  to  be  followed  by  an  ad- 
vance of  money.  His  financial  agents  reckoned 
him  "  good  business,"  and  having  secured  the  re- 
version of  his  property  at  his  mother's  death,  at  ri- 
diculous terms,  they  proceeded  to  try  and  obtain 
an  immediate  return  for  a  further  outlay  by  work- 
ing upon  the  mother's  affection  for  her  son  and  her 
probable  dread  of  his  exposure  to  public  shame. 

When  Mrs.  Lushington  understood  the  situation, 
how  thankful  she  became,  and  how  grateful  to  her 
father,  till  now  somewhat  estranged  in  death  by 
reason  of  that  will,  for  not  making  her  absolutely 
his  heir,  for  having  placed  his  property  under  the 
trusteeship  of  a  strong  and  honest  man.  Had  the 
matter  rested  with  her  could  she  have  refused  to 
save  her  son  from  ignominy  ?  Could  she  have 
withstood  the  machinations  of  those  blood- 
suckers ?  She  knew  she  must  have  given  way; 
she  would  have  given  up  everything,  and  beg- 
gared herself.  But  now  she  had  not  the 
power.  Nor  had  her  trustee.  Mr.  Fergus- 
son's  advice  was  that  there  was  only  one  way — a 
painful  one — to  free  young  Aubrey  and  his  prop- 
erty from  the  money-lenders'  clutches;  and  that 


R.  B.  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES.  159 

was  that,  having  been  so  mercilessly  fleeced,  he 
should  take  the  oft'ensive.  No  judge  or  jury  would 
confirm  the  arrangements  to  which  he  had  been 
practically  a  defrauded  party.  Mr.  Fergusson's 
forecasts  were  fully  justified  by  the  result.  But 
through  what  a  sea — of  anxiety  on  the  part  of  the 
mother,  of  shame  on  the  part  of  both  mother  and 
son — was  it  not  through  which  they  had  to  pass  ! 
The  trial  over,  indeed,  the  revulsion  of  feeling  in 
joy  at  success  made  Mrs.  Lushington  forget  nearly 
all  her  trouble.  Aubrey's  inheritance  was  saved  ! 
It  would  be  possible  within  a  few  years  to  free  him 
entirely  from  liabilities.  Mrs.  Lushington  was  quite 
hopeful;  and  if  anything  could  have  put  spirit  into 
Aubrey  it  would  have  been  his  mother's  astonish- 
ing display  of  light-heartedness.  But  the  verdict 
did  not  rouse  Aubrey  from  the  depth  of  depres- 
sion into  which  he  had  fallen  during  the  protracted 
trial.  Many  things  had  come  out  of  which  he  had 
thought  but  little  previously;  but  which  now,  seen 
as  it  were  from  the  point  of  view  of  other  people's 
eyes,  overwhelmed  him  with  shame.  To  have 
caused  so  unsavory  a  sensation  in  society  !  To  be 
the  talk  and  reprobation  of  high  and  low,  in  pri- 
vate conversation  and  in  the  public  press — all  this 
overwhelmed  him.  He  had  no  happiness  by  day, 
nor  sleep  by  night.  His  mind,  probably  never 
Avell  balanced,  gave  way  under  the  strain  of  con- 
stant silent  brooding  and  sleeplessness.  One  night 
in  a  fit  of  uncontrollable  longing  to  put  an  end  to 


l60  HYACINTH'S  REGRETS. 

his  trouble  the  unfortunate  lad  sprang  out  of  bed, 
tore  open  a  drawer,  snatched  up  a  loaded  revolver 
he  kept  there,  and,  putting  the  barrel  in  his  mouth, 
blew  out  his  brains. 

VII. 

This  white-haired  lady  in  black,  slowly  and  pain- 
fully making  her  way  along  the  silent  street — is  it 
possible  it  can  be  Mrs.  Lushington  ?  It  is  none 
other.  Her  head  is  bent.  She  has  no  eyes  for  the 
chance  passer-by;  she  is  possessed  by  her  thoughts, 
and  these  forever  harp  on  the  same  string.  Where 
is  her  boy  ?  She  knows  he  is  dead,  it  is  not  that 
so  much  which  troubles  her,  as  it  is  the  torturing 
question,  "  Where  is  he  now  ?  " 

This  thought  had  flashed  across  her  mind  im- 
mediately upon  the  catastrophe.  But  the  shock  had 
then  been  too  sudden  and  horrible,  the  rush  of  suc- 
ceeding events  too  rapid,  to  let  its  slow,  iterating, 
maddening  effect  be  at  first  fully  felt.  Just  as  a 
drowning  man  grasps  at  a  straw,  so  at  that  time 
Mrs.  Lushington's  whole  eagerness  had  been  to 
prove  that  Aubrey  had  all  along  been  out  of  his 
mind.  The  verdict  of  suicide  while  temporarily 
insane  seemed  to  her  at  first  a  verdict  as  it  were  of 
salvation  for  her  son's  soul.  It  was  not  she  alone 
that  thought  it,  she  argued;  twelve  men  unbiassed 
by  interest  or  affection,  having  weighed  all  the  evi- 
dence, had  come  to  the  same  conclusion;  and  for  a 
time  that  thought  mitigated  somewhat  the  cruel- 


J^.  B.   SHERIDAN  KNOWLES.  l6l 

lest  part  of  her  suffering.  But  when  all  was  over, 
when  Aubrey  had  been  laid  in  the  ground,  and  now 
eventless  days  followed  one  the  other,  all  full  for  her 
of  the  same,  monotonous,  wearing  thought,  the 
scant  comfort  she  had  grasped  at  failed  her  utterly, 
and  she  sank  prostrate  in  mind  and  body.  She 
thought  the  hand  of  death  was  upon  her,  and  death 
would  have  been  welcome.     But  it  was  not  to  be. 

Behold  her,  then,  wasted  to  a  shadow,  suddenly 
aged,  grown  bent,  white-haired,  and  strange,  as 
she  makes  her  way  from  the  cottage  in  which  she 
has  taken  a  couple  of  rooms  to  be  near  the  ceme- 
tery where  Aubrey  is  buried;  for  to  haunt  his  grave, 
to  sit  and  pray  there  for  long  hours  and  lay  her  face 
upon  the  earth  and  call  down  to  him,  is  her  only 
solace. 

As  in  fever  the  patient  turns  wearily  from  side  to 
side  in  search  of  rest,  trying  again  this  posture  and 
again  the  other,  though  before  the  change  brought 
no  relief,  so  does  this  poor  lady  seek  consolation 
and  advice  from  this  quarter  and  from  that,  pour- 
ing out  again  and  again  the  story  of  her  misery  and 
ask  for  guidance.  Over  and  over  again  she  has 
been  admonished  not  to  abandon  herself  to  de- 
spair; to  hope  for  her  son  in  the  mercy  of  God;  and 
in  her  boy's  name,  and  for  him,  to  resign  herself 
completely  to  the  Divine  Will.  She  tries  to — it  is 
all  she  can  do.  But  it  brings  her  but  little  comfort, 
and  there  are  times  when  it  affords  her  none. 

One  day  she  was  returning  in  this  despairing 


1 62  HYACINTH'S  REGRETS. 

frame  of  mind  from  the  cemetery  when,  just  as  she 
was  passing  a  church,  a  number  of  boys  who  had 
been  chasing  each  other  gathered  panting  about 
the  open  doorway,  where  they  stood  for  a  moment 
on  the  steps  to  recover  breath  and  let  their  noisy 
laughter  die  down  before  going  in.  One  of  these 
boys  at  once  attracted  her  attention,  because  of 
something  about  him  which  reminded  her  strongly 
of  Aubrey.  While  she  stool  gazing,  the  youths 
with  one  accord  crowded  into  the  church  and  clat- 
tered up  to  the  top  benches  of  the  nave;  and  Mrs. 
Lushington,  eager  for  further  sight  of  the  lad,  pres- 
ently liitted  like  a  shadow  up  one  of  the  aisles 
to  a  seat  in  which  she,  unobserved,  watched  the 
group,  and  soon  discovered  that  one  in  whom  she 
was  interested.  It  was  an  afternoon  class  for  cate- 
chism for  boys  about  to  make  their  First  Com- 
munion. It  seemed  as  if  in  putting  the  questions 
the  priest  was  going  over  ground  in  v^rhich  instruc- 
tion had  already  been  given,  to  see  if  they  had  re- 
tained the  substance  of  the  previous  lecture;  for  his 
questions,  at  least  at  first,  were  put  without  any  ob- 
vious sequence  or  apparent  connection  with  the 
main  subject  in  hand.  Mrs.  Lushington  was  not 
listening  to  the  questions  at  all,  but  sitting  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  boy  so  like  her  son,  and  the  mere 
looking  at  whom  filled  her  with  a  bitter-sweet  sat- 
isfaction. Suddenly  the  boy  stood  up.  He  had 
been  addressed,  but  had  not  caught  the  question. 
The  priest  repeated  it. 


i7.   B.  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES.  163 

"  May  we  ever  feel  sure  concerning  any  person 
now  departed  out  of  this  life,  that  he  or  she  is  in 
hell  ?  " 

"  No,  Father,"  answered  the  boy. 

"  Not  if  all  the  circumstances  of  his  life  and  death 
point  to  his  having  died  in  mortal  sin  ?  " 

"  No,  Father,"  answered  the  boy  stoutly. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  we  do  not  know  as  much  as  God 
knows,  and  therefore  we  do  not  know  what  God's 
judgment  is." 

'*  Quite  right.  Now,  what  for  instance  do  we 
not  know  ?  " 

"  We  do  not  know,"  answered  the  boy  that  was 
like  Aubrey,  "  how  far  the  person  may  have  been 
accountable  for  his  actions." 

"Exactly,"  said  the  priest;  "therefore  we  can 
never  be  certain  of  any  particular  person  that  he 
or  she  is  damned.  And  suppose,"  he  went  on, 
"  that  we  have  some  one  belonging  to  us  who  has 
died  without  a  priest,  without  the  sacraments,  and 
apparently  under  circumstances  which  would  at  the 
first  glance  lead  us  to  suppose  that  person  to  be 
lost,  should  we  give  up  all  hope  of  his  salvation  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  What  should  we  do  ?  " 

"  Pray  and  have  prayers  said  for  him." 

"  Anything  else  ?  " 

"  Do  good  works  for  him." 

"  Why  ?  " 


164  HYACINTH'S  REGRETS. 

"  Because  by  these  means  we  may  help  him,"  an- 
swered the  lad,  and  then,  his  questioning  finished, 
sat  down. 

It  seemed  to  Mrs.  Lushington  during  this  dia- 
logue as  if  hers  was  the  questioning  mind,  and  that 
it  was  Aubrey's  voice  that  was  answering  her.  The 
voice  and  all  it  had  said  echoed  in  her  ears  long 
after  the  boys  had  left  the  church  and  had  scattered 
in  all  directions.  Its  spell  was  upon  her  still  when 
she  reached  homeland  in  the  wakeful  silence  of 
the  night  it  seemed  to  call  out  to  her  and  say, 
"  Mother,  help  me  !  " 

It  was  the  constant  cry  of  that  voice  which  first 
roused  Mrs.  Lushington  and  led  her  little  by  little 
back  to  life  and  into  new  activities,  in  which  her 
wealth  makes  her  a  potent  influence.  Her  mental 
horizon  has  become  enlarged,  and  in  seeing  occa- 
sionally evidences  of  the  good  she  is  doing  she 
experiences  momentary  thrills  of  exquisite  happi- 
ness in  feeling  that  she  may  be  benefiting  her  son. 
A  calm  and  sense  of  peace  within  herself  are  often 
hers  to  an  extent  which  she  hardly  awhile  ago 
would  have  believed  possible.  But  sometimes  the 
keenness  of  her  great  sorrow,  with  all  its  anguish 
and  despair,  regains  for  a  time  its  mastery;  and  un- 
der the  torture  of  its  grip  she  cries  out:  "  Oh,  if 
only  my  poor  boy  had  died  that  time,  in  his  youth 
and  innocence  !  " 


FRANCES  M.  MAITLAND. 


Frances  Mary  Maitland  is  one  of  a  large  family,  and 
was  brought  up  in  a  Scotch  manse.  While  her  father  was 
proud  of  the  old  Presbyterian  stock  of  which  he  came,  her 
mother's  people  were  Episcopalians  and  on  one  side 
Jacobite. 

The  happiest  hours  of  Miss  Maitland's  existence  were 
spent  with  the  grandmother  whose  great-grandfather  had 
laid  down  his  life  on  Tower-Hill  for  the  "  Old  Pretender," 
and  whose  uncle,  with  his  own  lips,  had  told  her,  many  a 
time,  of  his  visit  to  Prince  Charlie  at  Rome. 

Miss  Maitland  and  her  sister  had  English  governesses  to 


improve  their  brogue.  The  first  was  dismissed  because  of 
her  generosity  in  h's.  the  next,  who  had  been  brought  up 
as  a  public  singer  and  had  lost  her  voice,  knew  little  and 
taught  less,  and  was  at  her  happiest,  her  feet  on  the  fender 
and  a  novel  in  her  hand.  The  children  did  not  like  her  on 
principle,  for  were  they  not  brought  up  on  Sir  Walter's"  Tales 
of  a  Grandfather,"  and  was  she  not  a  Southern — one  of  the 
hereditary  foes  of  their  nation  ? 

Their  mother  was  delicate,  and  when  her  daughters  grew 
up  it  was  their  grandmother  who  tooK  the  girls  about,  and 
enjoyed  the  fun  just  as  heartily  as  they  did. 

Then  came  the  death  of  Miss  Maitland's  father,  and  a 
wandering  life  began — a  small  house  in  Kensington  for  part 
of  the  year,  winters  in  France  and  Switzerland,  and  sum- 
mers with  the  grandmother  in  the  old  Scotch  town  that  had 
sheltered  Mary  Stuart 

With  the  wanderings  and  wider  view  of  the  world  came  a 
glimpse  of  the  world-embracing  Faith — Christ's  Church — a 
good  deal  of  reading,  many  questionings,  an  interview  with 
an  Oratorian  Father,  and,  finally,  reception  into  the  Church, 

This  was  followed  by  attempts  at  writing,  a  sketch  of 
"  Devorquilla  of  Galloway,"  and  her  "  Abbey  of  Dulce  Cor." 
and  a  kindly  letter  from  the  saintly  Father  Dignam,  S.J., 
then  editor  of  Tlie  English  Alcsse/iger.  Then  came  en- 
couragement from  Father  Matthew  Russell ;  and  a  longer 
story  in  T/ie  Month,  then  in  Father  Clarke's  hands  ;  after- 
wards stories  for  Mr.  Wilfrid  Meynell  in  Merry  Eng- 
land, in  Tlie  Catholic  Magazine^  The  Fireside,  and  one 
tale  for  the  American  Messem^-er. 


BY    FRANCES    M.    MAITLAND. 

People  were  not  astonished  when  Cecy  Bath- 
urst's  engagement  to  Lord  Lowdham  was  an- 
nounced. That  the  Bathurst  girls  made  good  mar- 
riages had  come  to  be  recognized  ;  not  that  they 
were  prettier,  nor  wittier,  nor,  if  it  came  to  that, 
better  dowered  than  other  girls,  but  "  it  was  a  way 
they  had,"  to  quote  Mrs.  Price,  the  rector's  wife. 

Had  not  old  Mrs.  Fawkes,  of  the  Court,  said, 
with  decision,  the  moment  she  heard  her  nephew 
was  on  his  way  home  from  his  Rocky  Mountain 
expedition,  "  He  will  just  be  in  time  for  Cecy  !  " 

Had  not  Colonel  Falkiner,  who  had  no  respect 
for  persons,  poked  his  brother-in-law,  the  Rector, 
in  the  ribs,  and  whispered,  "  Another  job  for  his 
Reverence,  eh.  Price  ?  "  the  very  first  time  he  saw 
the  couple  canter  together  up  the  street. 

Had  not  poor  Mrs.  Bathurst  herself  said,  with 
despairing  presentiment,  to  her  confidant.  Miss 
Packe,  "Oh,  I  hope  Lowdham  won't  take  a  fancy  to 
Cecy  !  "  A  confidence  responded  to  by  a  shake  of 
the  head  that  plainly  said,  "  Tliat,  dear  Mrs.  Bath- 
urst, no  one  can  undertake  to  tell  !  " 

167 


1 68  MISS  PACKE, 

Mrs.  Bathurst's  worst  enemies  could  not  have 
accused  her  of  being  a  match-making  mother;  her 
daughters'  engagements  invariably  took  her  by 
surprise,  and  cost  her  many  tears. 

A  young-looking  woman  still,  gentle,  patient 
Mrs.  Bathurst  lay  on  her  invalid  couch  in  the  little 
morning-room  all  day.  Her  malady  might,  in  the 
beginning,  have  been  the  vague  disease  hinted  at 
by  a  strong-minded  neighbor  now  and  then — 
nerves,  imagination,  habit  perhaps;  but  to  the  in- 
valid herself  the  sufferings  were  very  real,  and 
Miss  Packe,  when  catechized,  had  the  mysterious 
"  Ah,  poor  dear  !  "  that  impressed  the  listener  more 
than  a  longer  tale. 

Little  Dr.  Bramwell,  indeed,  had  been  reported 
to  have  said  that,  if  it  had  not  been  for  Miss  Packe 
encouraging  her  in  her  nonsense,  Mrs.  Bathurst 
would  have  been  up  and  walking  long  ago  ;  but 
even  he  had  given  up  trying  to  rouse  her,  though 
he  paid  her  a  duty  visit  now  and  then. 

Miss  Packe,  the  "  Dear  Packie  "  of  two  genera- 
tions of  Bathursts,  kept  house,  poured  out  tea,  read 
history  with  Cecy,  copied  Mr.  Bathurst's  letters  to 
The  Field,  nursed  and  spoiled  Mrs.  Bathurst,  and 
was  "  worked  to  death  among  them  all,"  according 
to  Mrs.  Price.  Not  that  Packie  thought  herself 
ill-used;  she  confessed  herself,  to  her  friends,  the 
happiest  of  women. 

When  there  was  not  company,  Mr.  Bathurst 
took  her  to  dinner  "  as  if  she  had  been  the  Queen;" 


FRANCES  M.    MAITLAND.  169 

and  if  the  house  was  full  and  she  elected,  as  she 
often  did,  to  sup  in  her  school-room  at  dinner-time, 
Griffiths,  the  old  butler,  was  sure  to  appear  with  a 
glass  of  port  ''  with  the  master's  compliments," 
and  never  failed  to  add  the  maccaroon  he  knew  she 
loved,  with  an  apologetic,  "  I  thought  you  might 
like  a  biscuit.  Miss." 

Mrs.  Bathurst  had  always  a  good-night  kiss 
ready,  a  grateful  pressure  of  the  hand,  and  often  a 
"  What  should  we  do  without  you,  Packie,  dear  ?  " 
that  brought  tears  to  the  little  woman's  eyes. 

Yes,  Packie  was  happy,  there  was  no  doubt  of 
that.  She  had  been  a  pretty  girl  in  her  youth,  and 
was  a  dainty-looking  woman  now,  with  bright 
brown  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks  and  snow-white  hair, 
and  had  "  kept  her  figure  wonderfully,"  as  the  say- 
ing is.  She  had  the  "  look  "  of  the  Bathursts  that 
made  Mrs.  Price  hint  that  she  might  be  a  poor  rela- 
tion after  all;  but  it  was  the  likeness  that  grows 
with  long  and  loving  intercourse,  an  accent,  a  man- 
nerism, an  expression  sometimes. 

A  loyal,  loving,  faithful  little  woman,  it  was  little 
wonder  the  Bathursts  loved  Miss  Packe. 

Time  had  stood  still  at  Bathurst-Coombe,  Lord 
Lowdham  thought,  when,  the  day  after  his  arrival 
home,  he  followed  Griffiths  into  the  morning- 
room. 

Mrs.  Bathurst,  the  pale  pink  (conversation  al- 
ways brought)  on  her  cheeks,  was  listening  to 
Father  Every,  the  chaplain,  and  the  Rector,  who 


I/O  MISS  PACKE. 

were  having  an  argument.  Dante  of  course  ! 
Lowdham  recognized  the  mellow  Roman  binding 
of  the  volume  in  the  chaplain's  hand  at  a  glance. 

Miss  Packe  in  black  silk  gown,  little  silver  caddy 
in  hand,  was  anxiously  watching  her  tea-kettle  as 
of  old  ;  the  Squire,  in  leggings,  was  leaning  back 
in  his  big  chair  with  Fix,  the  fox-terrier,  on  his 
knee,  while  Mary — they  had  not  told  him  Mary 
Leake  was  at  home — was  perched  on  an  arm  of  the 
chair,  in  a  cool  gray  spring  frock.  How  fresh  and 
bright  Mary  always  looked  !  Why,  if  Leake 
hadn't  spoken  so  soon,  who  knew  what  might  have 
happened  !  Lord  Lowdham  gave  a  little  sigh. 
He  had  taken  it  all  in  at  a  glance  as  Griffiths  an- 
nounced him. 

"  Lord  Lowdham."  The  Squire  jumped  up, 
Miss  Packe  put  her  caddy  down;  there  were  greet- 
ings, exclamations;  he  had  had  his  hand  nearly 
wrung  off  by  the  men,  had  been  patted  and  re- 
joiced over  by  Mrs.  Bathurst,  and  been  shyly  wel- 
comed by  Miss  Packe,  before  he  saw  that  the  slim 
figure  standing  by  her  father's  chair  was  not  Lady 
Leake  after  all. 

"  What,  you  don't  remember  Cecy  ?  "  the  Squire 
said,  with  a  chuckle. 

Time  had  not  stood  still  after  all;  five  years  ago 
he  had  brought  Cecy  Bathurst — a  doll  ! 

"  She  is  like  Mary,"  Mrs.  Bathurst  said  in  her 
gentle  way,  while  Cecy  stood  blushing  under  the 
general  scrutiny. 


FRAA'CES  M.    MAITLAND.  I7I 

Yes,  Cecy  was  like  her  eldest  sister,  Lord  Lowd- 
ham  told  himself,  as  he  sipped  his  cup  of  tea — like 
Mary,  but  with  a  difference;  taller,  he  thought,  the 
teeth  better  too — and  the  hair  !  Was  it  because 
the  Bathursts  had  naturally  curly  hair  that  it 
looked  so  soft  and  bright,  and  not  dry  and  frizzled 
up  like  the  hair  of  half  the  other  girls  he  knew  ? 
Yes,  Cecy's  hair  was  just  like  Mary's — Kitty  Tolle- 
mache's  was  darker,  Louie  Heron's  too.  But 
there  !  there  were  no  girls  like  the  Bathursts  any- 
where— sweet  and  frank  and  natural,  and  not  too 
learned.  Miss  Packe  had  to  be  thanked  for  that  ! 
And  always  well-dressed,  and  never  (hateful  word) 
smart  I 

"  Of  course  it  was  love  at  first  sight,"  as  Mrs. 
Price  said  when,  not  a  month  after  the  first  meet- 
ing, the  engagement  was  announced.  But  Mrs. 
Price  liked  Cecy  Bathurst,  her  "  bark  was  waur 
than  her  bite,"  and  she  rejoiced  in  the  girl's  happi- 
ness in  her  heart. 

"  What  was  the  good  of  having  daughters, 
if  they  ran  away  and  left  you  as  soon  as  they 
were  grown  up  ?  "  Mrs.  Bathurst  asked  despair- 
ingly. 

"  Most  mothers  would  consider  you  lucky,"  Mrs. 
Price  responded  dryly. 

"  I  suppose  some  one  will  be  running  away  with 
Packie  next  !  "  with  a  sigh. 

"  Ah,  there  we  may  trust  Providence  will  be 
kind,"  said  the  Rector's  wife. 


172  MISS  PACKE.         ^ 

"  There  was  no  hurry,"  the  Squire  protested, 
when  Lowdham  urged  Cecy  to  name  the  day. 

And  why  should  they  wait  ?  Lord  Lowdham 
expostulated,  not  unmindful  of  the  grouse.  Let 
them  be  married,  take  the  run  to  the  continent 
Cecy  wished,  and  have  a  week  or  two  at  home  be- 
fore going  north. 

"'Happy's  the  wooing  that's  not  long  a-doing,'" 
quoted  Mrs.  Price.  "  The  genus  '  Bathurst  girl ' 
once  extinct,  some  other  of  the  Exshire  young 
ladies  may  have  their  chance  !  " 

"  The  Bathursts  and  Lowdhams  were  old  Catho- 
lics," Mrs.  Price  was  careful  to  explain  to  all  new- 
comers. "  She  had  no  patience,"  she  would  add, 
"  with  perverts  like  the  Tollemaches,  and  Sir  John 
Leake.  '  Reverts  '  ?  Did  Punch  really  call  them 
re-verts  ?     Then  Puncli  was  a  fool  !  " 

Lowdham  got  his  own  way,  and  June  saw  Cecy 
Bathurst,  with  Dolly  Price  as  bridesmaid,  a  wife; 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bathurst  and  Miss  Packe  settled 
down  again,  as  best  they  might  in  the  big  house  left 
daughterless. 

"  Cecy  kept  us  young,"  the  Squire  complained, 
rubbing  his  rheumatic  leg. 

Fix  haunted  Cecy's  room,  and  growled  when  the 
housemaids  tried  to  displace  him  from  her  bed. 

Mrs.  Bathurst  consoled  herself  with  the  pages  of 
descriptive  happiness  sent  nearly  every  day  from 
the  Tyrol. 

She  was  always  cold  nowadays,  she  told  Miss 


FRANCES   M.    MA  IT  LAND.  173 

Packe  one  day,  making  her  feel  her  hands.  Cold 
in  July  !  and  in  that  sunny  room  with  a  fire. 
Packie  was  not  satisfied. 

"  Circulation,  nothing  but  circulation,"  the  doc- 
tor, who  happened  to  be  busy,  said,  not  disguising 
his  temper. 

"  Ah,  poor  dear  !  "  Miss  Packe  began. 

"  Yes,  that's  just  it,  '  poor  dear,'  "  the  little  man 
interrupted  impatiently,  "  '  Poor  dear  !  '  indeed  ! 
It's  just  what  I  have  told  you,  all  your  fault.  Miss 
Packe,  encouraging  her  " — he  paused  for  a  civil 
word — "  in  these  indolent  ways.  It's  too  late  now, 
perhaps,  but  she  ought  to  have  been  turned  off  that 
sofa  twenty  years  ago.  You  had  the  matter  in 
your  own  hands."  And  the  little  man  rubbed  his 
hands  to  show  he  washed  them  of  the  whole 
affair. 

"  Oh,  poor  dear  !  "  Miss  Packe  repeated,  wiping 
her  eyes,  "  indeed  you  don't  understand." 

"  I  understand  well  enough."  And  with  a  grunt 
the  busy  little  man  was  gone. 

"  It  was  losing  Miss  Cecy  made  the  mistress  so 
Mwiney,' "  the  servants  agreed;  "And  most  un- 
natural if  it  hadn't  and  her  the  apple  of  her  eye," 
Flint  the  maid  added,  resenting  what  she  was 
pleased  to  call  Miss  Packe's  "  fuss." 

Pretty  Kitty  Tollemache,  who,  summoned  by 
Miss  Packe,  drove  over  the  grays  that  were  the 
envy  of  the  country-side,  to  see  her  mother,  agreed 
with  Flint,  and  suggested  that  Lady  Leake's  little 


174  ^ISS  PACKE. 

son  and  heir  should  be  sent  for  to  cheer  up  his 
grandmother.  Packie  mustn't  be  nervous,  she 
added,  as  she  kissed  the  httle  woman  good-by;  but 
Packie  only  shook  her  head. 

It  was  quite  a  consolation  to  Miss  Packe  when 
the  Lowdhams  turned  up  a  week  sooner  than  was 
expected,  and  she  was  able  to  pour  out  all  her 
anxieties  and  fears;  but  the  next  day  found  JNIrs. 
Bathurst  so  much  better  it  almost  seemed  as  if  Flint 
had  been  right  after  all.  "  I  told  you,  Miss,"  that 
worthy  said  triumphantly,  "  it  was  only  a-missing 
Miss  Cecy — her  ladyship,  as  I  should  say,  begging 
her  pardon." 

The  next  day  was  the  same.  Mrs.  Bathurst  en- 
joyed her  luncheon,  enjoyed  Lowdham's  account 
of  their  wanderings  and  even  adventures  in  the 
Tyrol,  admired  the  presents  brought  from  Paris, 
was  wheeled,  Cecy  dancing  by  her  side,  as  far  as 
the  east  lodge,  enjoyed  her  chat  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Price  who  came  to  dinner,  and  told  Flint  while  she 
was  being  put  to  bed,  she  didn't  know  how  it  was 
but  she  felt  quite  young  somehow. 

Packie  never  forgot  that  July  evening  when, 
Flint  gone,  she  slipped  in  as  usual  to  say  good- 
night. 

'■  How  happy  Cecy  was,  and  Lowdham,  how 
good  !  "  the  mother  said,  rejoicing;  then  "  Kiss 
me,  Packie,  I  am  tired." 

"  Not  cold  ?  " 

"  No,   not   cold.      Well,   a   little   perhaps,   but 


FRANCES  M.    MAITLAND.  I75 

nothing  to  worry  about."  But  Packie,  unsatisfied, 
wrapped  her  up. 

She  had  said  a  second  good-night  and  reached 
the  door  when  Mrs.  Bathurst  spoke  again.  "  You 
wouldn't  leave  Dick,  would  you,  Packie  ?  " 

"Dick"  was  Mr.  Bathurst;  and  while  Packie, 
startled,  paused  for  an  answer,  Mrs.  Bathurst 
spoke  again.  "  Good-night,  Packie,  I  am  going  to 
sleep." 

Packie  was  a  good  sleeper  herself,  owing,  per- 
haps, to  what  may  be  called  her  perennial  youth. 
Mr.  Bathurst  had  a  joke,  called  up  on  occasion, 
that  made  the  little  lady  blush,  that  it  took  the  fire- 
engine  to  wake  Packie  up.  A  story  so  far  true, 
that  when  fire  broke  out  in  the  schoolroom  one 
early  morning,  the  garden  lads  in  their  over  zeal, 
had  played  the  hose  into  the  first  open  window 
they  found,  and  soused  poor  Packie  in  her  bed. 
But  it  scarcely  needed  Flint's  trembling  touch  to 
rouse  her  on  the  sad  July  day  that  followed  Cecy's 
coming  home.  Mrs.  Bathurst  had  had  a  paralytic 
stroke. 

Doctors  and  nurses  came,  in  succession,  from 
town.     Daughters,  hastily  summoned,  arrived. 

Cecy,  like  a  little  ghost,  haunted  her  mother's 
room,  insisting  she  knew  her,  that  she  had  moved 
her  eyes,  her  hand. 

The  Squire  refused  to  leave  his  wife's  side. 
Father  Every  and  the  doctor,  keeping  vigil  in  the 
library,  came  up-stairs  from  time  to  time,  joining 


176  MISS  PACKE. 

their  entreaties  to  Packie's  that  the  Squire  should 
take  some  rest;  but  the  old  man,  older  than  his 
dying  wife  by  twenty  years,  only  shook  his  head; 
and  in  the  early  morning,  her  helpless  hand  tight 
locked  in  his,  Mrs.  Bathurst  died. 

That  "  Packie  "  was  to  look  after  Mr.  Bathurst 
settled  itself  into  the  natural  thing.  Lady  Leake, 
indeed,  tutored  by  her  husband  that,  as  eldest 
daughter,  she  should,  before  leaving,  make  some 
arrangements  for  her  father's  comfort,  began  a  lit- 
tle speech  one  day,  only  to  break  down  in  the  first 
sentence  and  to  throw  her  arms  round  Packie's 
neck  with  a  sob  and  a  "Oh,  Packie  dear  !  you 
know  better  than  any  of  us  what  he  likes,"  and 
"  Indeed,  I  will  do  my  best,"  Packie  said,  sobbing 
too. 

The  Squire  took  his  sorrow  simply  and  manfully, 
only  begging  that  nothing  should  be  meddled  with 
or  changed.  So  Mrs.  Bathurst's  great  white  couch 
and  invalid  table  covered  with  books  were  left  in 
their  corner  of  the  sunny  morning-room,  and  the 
gardener  brought,  as  of  old,  her  favorite  pots  of 
flowers,  and  when  the  20th  of  August  came  and 
Lord  Lowdham,  who  had  manfully  resisted  the 
grouse,  could  not  resist  the  black  game,  Cecy  and 
he  went  north,  and  the  Squire  and  Miss  Packe 
settled  down  to  their  new  life.  Packie  doing  the 
housekeeping,  arranging  the  flowers,  writing  her 
orders  as  of  old. 

Sometimes  the  old  man  forgot  his  loss,  and  burst 


FRANCES  M.    MAITLAND.  177 

into  the  morning-room  where  Packie,  her  work 
done,  sat  with  her  knitting,  with  a  "  CaroHne, 
what  do  you  think,  a  bearded  tit  was  seen  on  the 
Denne  Marsh  yesterday  !  "  or,  ''  Carohne,  what  do 
you  think,  the  beam-birds  on  the  south  wah  are 
bringing  out  their  second  brood."  And  when  the 
silence  and  empty  sofa  reminded  him  his  wife  was 
gone  he  would  give  a  "  Tut,  tut,"  or  "  Dear,  dear," 
and  walk  away;  and  Miss  Packe  would  not  see  him 
again  for  an  hour  or  two. 

He  liked  to  refer  to  his  wife:  "  as  Caroline,  poor 
dear,  would  have  said,"  or,  "  Caroline,  poor  dear, 
would  have  liked  this  or  that,"  or  he  would  remind 
Miss  Packe  of  the  days  of  their  early  married  life, 
when  "  Caroline,  poor  dear,  had  been  the  prettiest 
girl  in  Exshire." 

"  Yes,  Mary  and  Cecy  were  both  like  their 
mother.  Kitty  too,  but  they  couldn't  hold  a 
candle  to  her."     Miss  Packe  would  bear  him  out. 

The  months  went  on  ;  December  came, 
"  What  ?  Not  have  the  poor  girls  at  Christmas  ! 
Tut,  tut,  that  would  never  do.  What  would  poor 
dear  Caroline  say  to  such  a  thing  ?  Tut,  tut  !  tut, 
tut  !  What  was  she  thinking  about  ?  No,  no, 
they  must  all  come,  all  come.  Yes,  babies  and  all; 
yes,  babies  and  all.  Miss  Packe  must  mind  that — 
just  as  usual." 

Perhaps  the  Squire  found  his  first  real  consola- 
tion in  Lady  Leake's  little  three-year-old  boy,  who, 
if  backward  in  speech,  hugged  the  pointers  and 


178  MISS  PACKE. 

rushed  to  horses'  heels  in  a  way  that  enchanted  his 
grandfather — if  it  drove  liis  attendants  distracted  ! 

"  A  regular  Bathurst,  every  inch  of  him,"  the 
Squire  proclaimed  with  pride,  when,  lost  one  morn- 
ing, he  was  found  cuddled  up  in  Brough's  (the 
great  mastiff)  kennel  in  the  yard.  "  If  poor  Caro- 
line only  could  have  seen  him  !  " 

Some  of  Packie's  smiles,  too,  came  back  with 
the  young  folk.  They  had  their  Christmas  pres- 
ents for  her,  a  miniature  of  Mrs.  Bathurst — a  joint 
gift — books,  texts,  what  not  !  Even  Freddy  Tolle- 
mache  had  his  present,  given  before  dinner  in  the 
drawing-room,  a  brooch  to  fasten  Packie's  shawl, 
a  silver  pack  of  hounds  in  cry. 

"Said  to  Kit  the-moment  I  spotted  it,  'That's 
my  present,  Kit.'  A  pack  of  hounds  !  Good,  isn't 
it  ?     Ha,  ha  !  " 

And  while  Packie,  with  all  her  gratitude,  looked 
at  it  askance.  Kit  said  severely,  "  No  one  but  your- 
self would  see  any  point  in  such  a  foolish  joke, 
Freddy  !  " 

"  It  has  its  point,  though  !  Come,  Miss  Kitty, 
confess,"  Freddy  cried,  seizing  his  wife's  white 
arm. 

"  You  are  hurting  me,  Freddy,  be  quiet  " — and 
Kitty  pointed  over  the  little  red  mark.  "  You 
ought  to  behave  properly,  it  isn't  " — and  poor 
Kitty  gave  a  sob — "  it  isn't  like  other  years." 

"  If  you  mean  I  don't  miss  your  poor  mother, 
you're  wrong,"  Freddy  said  with  decision,  "  but  she 


FRANCES  M.    MAITLAND.  1/9 

wouldn't  grudge  us  a  little  joke,  would  she,  Miss 
Packe  ?  " 

After  all,  Christmas  went  off  "  better  than  could 
have  been  expected,"  as  Mrs.  Price  said,  and  in- 
deed that  lady  did  her  best  to  help  things  along. 

It  was  Freddy  Tollemache,  however,  who  spe- 
cially took  in  hand  the  cheering  up  of  the  Squire, 
inventing,  Kitty  sadly  feared,  tales  of  shovellers 
that  had  been  shot,  and  wild  geese  that  had  been 
seen  on  the  Denne  Lake.  He  even  managed  to 
secure  a  snipe  with  some  peculiarity  in  its  plumage 
that  kept  the  Squire  happy  and  excited  for  many  a 
day. 

"  Packie  had  the  patience  of  the  saints,"  Freddy 
confided  to  his  wife,  when  he  saw  the  little  woman 
putting  the  scraps  of  paper,  quarter  sheets,  out  of 
backs  of  envelopes,  a  sheet  out  of  an  old  account- 
book  perhaps,  into  order  before  copying  out  the 
Squire's  communication  to  The  Field,  and  putting 
away  the  volume  after  volume  he  had  pulled  down 
in  verifying  his  facts,  if  facts,  with  Freddy's  snipe's 
tale  in  question,  they  might  be  called  ! 

After  the  Christmas  gathering,  life  went  on  more 
cheerfully  at  Bathurst-Coombe.  Little  Dick  Leake 
was  left,  with  his  nurses,  for  a  time.  Then  spring 
came,  and  the  home-farm,  recently  taken  into  his 
own  hands,  and  talks  with  the  bailiff,  kept  the 
Squire  busy,  and  left  little  time  to  fret. 

If  poor  Packie  had  her  troubles  with  the  house- 
hold, she  did  not  complain. 


l80  MISS  PACKE. 

It  had  been  all  very  well  for  the  governess  to 
have  mistressed  over  them — as  deputy,  one  might 
say — while  the  mistress  was  alive;  but  that,  now 
she  was  dead  and  gone.  Miss  Packe  was  to  have  it 
all  her  own  way,  was  "  more  than  flesh  and  blood 
could  stand,  and  enough  to  make  Mrs.  Bathurst 
turn  in  her  grave,"  according  to  Flint,  whom  the 
Squire  had  refused  to  send  away.  "  She  had  been 
a  good  maid  to  poor  Caroline,  and  women  always 
seemed  to  find  sewing  to  do  about  a  house  !  " 

It  was  Freddy  Tollemache  who,  coming  in  wet 
by  the  side-door  one  day  he  had  ridden  over  to  see 
his  father-in-law,  heard  Flint  "  slanging "  Miss 
Packe  in  the  linen-room  and  went  straight  to  the 
Squire  ;  and,  Flint  pensioned  off,  and  Griffiths 
solemnly  bound  over  to  report  any  further  inso- 
lence, Packie  was  at  peace. 

It  was  on  the  anniversary  of  her  mother's  death 
that  Cecy  Lowdham's  little  daughter  came.  Mr. 
Bathurst  walked  over  daily  to  inspect  the  little  pink 
morsel  of  humanity  that,  lying  in  the  portly  nurse's 
arms,  puckered  up  its  face  and  doubled  its  fists,  and 
did  all  a  well-dispositioned  baby  should. 

"  No  look  of  its  poor  grandmother,"  the  Squire 
would  say  disconsolately,  touching  its  cheek 
gingerly  with  a  gentle  finger-tip. 

"  And  it  was  early  days  yet  to  say  who  her  little 
ladyship  would  be  like,"  Mrs.  Naylor  would  cheer- 
fully reply,  with  a  dip  in  acknowledgment  of  the 
sovereign  that  so  often  found  Its  way  to  her  palm. 


FRANCES  M.    MA  I  TLA  ND.  l8l 

In  Packie's  opinion  the  baby  had  Mrs.  Bathurst's 
eyes. 

"  I  beheve  them  when  I  see  them,"  Freddy,  who 
had  made  his  way  to  the  nursery,  said.  "  Miss 
Packe,  do  you  beheve  you  were  ever  such  a  mon- 
ster as  that  ?     A  lobster's  a  joke  to  it  !  " 

A  monster  indeed  !  Packie  nearly  cried.  How- 
ever, even  Freddy  was  interested  in  hearing  that  it 
was  a  monster  in  another  sense,  had  turned  the 
scale  at  twelve  pounds,  according  to  Dr.  Bram- 
well. 

"  Why,  Kit's  poor  little  beggar  only  weighed 
three  and  a  half,"  Freddy  cried;  for  Kitty  had  lost 
her  only  child. 

Dr.  Bramwell  on  his  way  home  from  Lowdham 
used  to  stop  at  Bathurst-Coombe  to  give  Packie 
the  last  news  of  Cecy. 

"  Nothing  wrong  with  Miss  Packe  ?  "  the  Squire 
asked  anxiously  one  day,  waylaying  the  little  man 
in  the  hall. 

"  There  is  nothing  wrong  with  Miss  Packe,"  the 
doctor  was  happy  to  say. 

"  That  was  all  right,"  the  Squire,  relieved, 
said. 

Miss  Packe  in  his  opinion,  the  doctor  rather 
stiffly  went  on,  was  an  exceptionally  healthy  wom- 
an for  her  years — ex-ception-ally  healthy,  he  re- 
peated, rubbing  his  hands.  Might  he  add  that 
he  had  a  great  respect,  he  might  say  the  greatest 
re-spect,  for  Miss  Packe. 


1 82  MISS  PACKE. 

"  Yes,  yes,  certainly."  What  on  earth  was  the 
fellow  driving  at  ?  the  Squire  asked  himself. 

If  the  Squire  were  not  busy,  Dr.  Bramwell  would 
be  glad  of  a  few  words. 

No,  the  Squire  was  not  busy  ;  he  was  at  the 
doctor's  service  ;  but  he  thought  ruefully  of  the 
bailiff  setting  out  without  him  to  the  new  cottages. 

"  The  day  was  warm,  what  would  the  doctor 
have  ?     A  B.  and  S.  ?  " 

The  day  was  certainly  warm,  to  judge  from  Dr. 
Bramwell's  appearance,  as  he  sat  mopping  his  fore- 
head with  a  red  silk  handkerchief,  in  one  of  the  big 
library  chairs. 

The  brandy  and  soda,  administered  by  Griffiths, 
perhaps  gave  him  courage,  for,  thrusting  the  hand- 
kerchief into  his  pocket,  and  clearing  his  throat,  he 
spoke. 

"  As  I  said,  Mr.  Bathurst,  I  have  a  great  respect, 
a  ve-ry  great  re-spect,  for  Miss  Packe." 

What  on  earth  was  the  fellow  after  ?  the  Squire 
asked  himself  again.  Audibly — "  He  hoped  they 
all  had  that." 

"  In  fact," — the  doctor  took  another  gulp  from 
his  glass  and  drew  out  the  handkerchief  again — 
"  in  fact,  I  have  thought  of  it  for  some  time.  In 
fact — I  have  asked  Miss  Packe  to  be  my  wife." 

The  murder  was  out  !     "  The !  "     A  bad 

word  very  nearly  came  from  Mr.  Bathurst's  mouth; 
he  walked  to  the  window,  walked  back  again,  then 
back  to  the  window,  then  turned.     "  She  has  ac- 


FJ^AiVCES  i\L    MAITLAND.  1 83 

cepted  you  ?  "  Looking  at  little,  red-faced,  podgy 
Dr.  Bramwell,  Mr.  Bathurst  thought  it  un- 
likely ! 

"  Well,  that  he  could  hardly  say — Miss  Packe 
had  been — the  Squire  would  understand — taken 
a  lit-tle,  yes,  a  lit-tle  by  surprise.  Ladies  always 
were,  he  believed,  on  these  occasions.     He  !  he  !  " 

The  little  snob  !  The  Squire  felt  inclined  to  kick 
him.  "  Surely,  you  know  whether  she  said  yes  or 
no  ?  "  he  demanded  irately. 

"  Of  course,  of  course."  The  little  man  was 
mopping  his  brow  again.  "  That  was  just  it.  Miss 
Packe  had  been  taken,  as  he  had  said,  a  lit-tle  by 
surprise.  It  had  struck  him  that  Mr.  Bathurst, 
perhaps,  would  say  a  word  for  him  ?  He  had  a 
fair  practice,  had  his  savings,  he  could  make  her 
comfortable,  he  hoped." 

"  She  is  not  young."  The  Squire  spoke 
abruptly,  he  was  provoked,  angry — Bramwell  want 
to  marry  Miss  Packe  I  Advise  Packie,  who  was  as 
good  as  any  of  them — why,  if  her  father  hadn't  got 
into  that  mess,  Packie  would  never  have  been 
teaching  at  Bathurst-Coombe — advise  her  to 
marry  little  Bramwell,  whose  father  had  been  the 
county  vet  !  An  honest  little  chap,  no  doubt, — 
but  Miss  Packe  !     The  Squire  fumed. 

"  He  himself  was  fifty;  age,  if  he  might  say  so, 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  affection.  Yes,  af-fec- 
tion,  if  he  might  use  the  word,  he  had  for  Miss 
Packe."     The  little  man  spoke  with  some  dignity. 


1 84  MISS  PACKE.  ' 

He  saw  Mr.  Bathitrst  was  ruffled  ;  naturally  (he 
said  to  himself)  he  would  not  care  to  lose  Miss 
Packe,  who  suited  him  to  the  ground,  but  it  would 
be  easy  for  the  Squire,  with  his  means,  to  find  an- 
other housekeeper,  or  he  might  take  the  Herons  to 
live  with  him,  as  many  people  thought  he  should 
have  done  when  Mrs.  Bathurst  died;  the  Herons 
were  hard  up,  as  everybody  knew. 

"  Look  here,  Bramwell  " — the  Squire,  who  had 
been  walking  up  and  down  again,  paused — "  I 
never  interfere  in  these  matters.  If  a  woman  likes 
a  man,  she  finds  it  easy  enough  to  tell  him  so  !  If 
she  doesn't — well,  I'm  not  the  man  to  persuade  her 
to  marry  him  against  her  will  !  " 

"  Ye-e-s,"  the  little  doctor  spoke  disappointedly; 
then  more  cheerfully,  taking  up  his  hat,  "  you'll  at 
least  wish  me  good-luck  ?  " 

"  Good-luck  ?  Of  course  I'll  wish  you  good- 
luck,"  the  Squire  said  testily,  as  he  shook  the  de- 
parting visitor's  hand. 

Mr.  Bathurst  looked  curiously  at  Miss  Packe 
when  they  met  at  the  luncheon-table.  Her  eyes 
and  nose  were  red,  her  face  flushed,  her  manner  a 
little  agitated.  A  first  ofTer  at  fifty-six  might 
naturally  agitate,  one  may  allow. 

There  was  no  doubt  Miss  Packe  had  been  taken 
by  surprise,  she  had  been  touched  by  Dr.  Bram- 
well's  devotion  to  Cecy,  by  his  kindness  in  bringing 
her  the  daily  bulletins — but  that  he  should  ask  her 
to  be  his  wife  !     After  the  little  man's  departure 


FRANCES  M.    MA  IT  LAND.  1 85 

she  had  been  as  near  hysterics  as  she  had  ever  been 
in  her  Hfe. 

All  the  doctor  had  gathered,  incoherently 
enough  at  the  time,  was,  that  it  was  impossible, 
quite  impossible;  and,  when  he  had  begged  her 
to  consider,  she  had  sobbed  "  Yes,  yes,"  only 
anxious  to  get  him  off. 

The  luncheon  was  a  silent  one,  the  Squire  taking 
furtive  glances  at  Packie  now  and  then,  regarding 
her  in  a  new  light,  as  a  marriageal^le  lady.  Well, 
Bramwell  was  no  fool;  she  was  a  fresh,  sensible, 
comfortable-looking  little  woman,  any  man  might 
be  proud  to  call  his  wife. 

Poor  Packie,  crumbling  her  bread,  and  vainly 
trying  to  swallow  her  roast  mutton,  was  painfully 
aware  of  her  flushed  cheeks  and  swollen  eyes. 

"  A  glass  of  wine.  Miss  Packe,"  the  Squire  said 
presently,  in,  what  he  could  not  prevent  from 
being,  commiserating  tones — "  Griffiths,  the  wine 
to  Miss  Packe.  Tut,  tut,  it  will  do  you  good  ; 
Griffiths,  fill  up  the  glass.  There,  that's  right, 
drink  it  up." 

"  Was  she  going  to  Lowdham  that  afternoon  ?  " 
he  asked  presently,  when  Grififiths,  who  also  had 
been  eying  Miss  Packe  solemnly,  had  left  the  room. 

"  Not  unless  Mr.  Bathurst  had  a  message  ;  she 
had  a  letter — letter  to  write,"  Packie  answered 
v\ath  some  confusion,  ready  to  cry  again. 

He  was  going  himself,  the  Squire  said  ;  then — 
**  Look  here,  Miss  Packe,  as  long  as  I  am  alive,  and 


1 86  MISS  PACKE. 

you  are  happy  with  us,  your  home's  here.  You 
understand." 

And  Miss  Packe  understood  that  the  Squire 
knew  all  about  Dr.  Bramwell's  offer,  and  grew 
scarlet. 

Dr.  Bramwell  certainly  did  not  speak  of  his  own 
discomfiture,  nor  did  Miss  Packe,  honorable  little 
woman,  tell  tales;  but  in  a  few  days  every  one,  in- 
cluding Mrs.  Price,  knew  that  the  little  man  had 
proposed  and  been  refused. 

If  the  Squire  did  tell  Freddy  Tollemache,  it  was 
in  confidence,  and  if  Freddy,  through  Mary  Leake, 
who,  as  eldest  matron  of  the  Bathurst  girls,  was  in 
charge  at  Lowdham,  did  send  Cecy  a  pencil  sketch 
of  the  Doctor  on  his  knees  offering  Miss  Packe  a 
large  heart,  Cecy  had  hidden  it  under  her  pillow  at 
once  that  the  nurses  might  not  see  it  and  talk. 

"  The  pair  of  them  had  more  sense  in  their  heads 
than  she  would  have  credited  them  with,"  Mrs. 
Price  summed  up.  "  Miss  Packe  would  have  made 
a  most  excellent  wife,  and  Dr.  Bramwell  a — well,  a 
detestable  husband  !  " 

"  j\Iy  dear  !  my  dear  !  "  charitable  old  Mr.  Price 
said. 

"  By  Jove,  Kit,  I  believe  Packie's  got  another 
sweetheart,"  Freddy  Tollemache  announced  one 
day  when  he  had  come  back  from  Bathurst- 
Coombe,  about  the  end  of  November. 

Litigation  is  not  agreeable,  but  Mr.  Bathurst's 
quick  temper  got  him  into  many  a  scrape,  and 


FRANCES  M,   MAITLAND,  1 8/ 

"  before  he  knew  what  he  was  about,"  as  he  told 
Freddy,  he  had  found  himself  deep  in  a  complicated 
lawsuit  with  the  outgoing  tenant  of  the  Home 
Farm. 

"  Compromise,"  Freddy  advised.  "  It'll  cost 
you  a  lot  more  than  a  few  dirty  bags  of  hme." 

"  It  isn't  the  lime,  it's  the  principle,"  the  Squire 
said. 

"  Oh,  hang  the  principle  !  "  Freddy  said.  "  Do 
the  cheap  thing  these  hard  times."  But  the  Squire 
would  not  be  advised,  and  Mr.  Omerod,  senior 
member  of  the  firm  of  Omerod,  Green  &  Omerod, 
the  Squire's  London  solicitors,  was  in  constant 
requisition  at  Bathurst-Coombe. 

"  Fancy  having  an  expensive  fellow  like  that 
down,  when  old  Wickham  would  have  done  just  as 
well,"  Freddy  said.  "  A  nice  bill  your  father  will 
have  !  Omerod  don't  come  for  nothing,  I  can  tell 
you  that." 

Freddy,  an  idle  man,  living  with  |\is  father  and 
mother,  rode  over  to  Bathurst-Coombe  "  to  look 
the  Squire  up  "  nearly  every  day  and  brought  Kitty 
back  the  news. 

"  You  should  see  the  eyes  old  Omerod  makes  at 
Miss  Packe,"  he  reported  pretty  regularly  to  his 
wife  at  this  time. 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Freddy." 

"  Well,  you'll  see,  Mrs.  Kit  !  Look  here,  what 
will  you  bet  ?  " 

Even  the  Squire  began  to  wonder — important 


loo  MISS  PACKE.  I 

as,  in  his  opinion,  the  case  "  Jones  versus  Bathurst" 
was — at  the  frequency  of  Mr,  Omerod's  Saturday 
to  Monday  visits. 

Mr.  Omerod,  to  be  sure,  was  careful  to  explain 
on  most  of  these  occasions  that  he  had  only  run 
down  to  have  a  friendly  little  talk  over  matters  ; 
and,  to  do  him  justice,  none  of  the  long  confabs 
held  in  the  smoking-room  ever  swelled  Omerod, 
Green  &  Omerod's  account. 

Mr.  Omerod,  who  had  not  long  lost  the  old 
mother  who  had  kept  his  house,  was  a  bald-headed, 
professional-looking  little  man,  nearly  as  stout,  if 
not  as  red  in  the  face,  as  Miss  Packe's  suitor,  Dr, 
Bramwell.  Mr.  Omerod  was,  however,  a  gentle- 
man, belonged  to  one  of  the  Squire's  own  clubs, 
liked  his  dinner  and  his  glass  of  wine,  and  did  not 
hesitate  to  condemn  either  if  bad. 

Packie  and  Mr.  Omerod  were  old  acquaintances, 
of  course. 

"  Miss  Packe  was  well  ? "  Mr.  Omerod  had 
hoped  as  usual,  the  first  time  he  had  run  down 
about  "  the  Jones  affair,"  as  the  Squire  drove  him 
up  from  the  station. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Packe  was  well,"  the  Squire  said, 
giving  the  mare  a  flick;  then  confidentially,  with  a 
glance  at  the  groom  behind,  "  Bramwell  wanted  to 
carry  her  off." 

"  Indeed,"  the  lawyer  looked  his  surprise,  and 
both  men  laughed,  but  Mr.  Omerod  regarded  Miss 
Packe  with  more  interest  than  usual  when  they 


FRANCES  M.    MAITLAND.  1 89 

met  before  dinner  that  night,  and,  as  it  happened, 
Packie  was  looking  her  best,  in  new  silk  gown — 
Lady  Leake's  last  gift — and  soft  lace  fichu. 

Mr.  Omerod  didn't  want  a  giddy,  dressy  girl, 
fond  of  theatres  and  balls  perhaps,  to  be  at  the  head 
of  his  house;  still  less  did  he  want  a  "frump,"  a 
plain,  middle-aged  person,  in  dowdy  frock,  like  the 
Miss  Baker  his  married  sister  Mrs.  Green  was 
pleased  to  recommend  as  an  excellent  future  Mrs. 
Omerod.  He  wanted  a  good-looking,  intelligent 
woman,  not  fond  of  gayety,  but  accustomed  to 
society,  whom  he  might  be  proud  to  introduce  to 
his  friends.  How  did  it  happen  he  had  never 
thought  of  Miss  Packe  before  ?  Quite  a  distin- 
guished-looking person,  the  lawyer  thought,  ob- 
serving her  critically;  healthy,  good-natured,  an 
excellent  housekeeper — the  Bathurst-Coombe  din- 
ners proved  that — of  his  own  faith  (and  that  was 
imperative),  of  good  family  too.  Why,  Sir 
Howard  Packe,  the  V.C.  man,  was  Miss  Packe's 
cousin,  and  he  had  married  Lord  Easthampton's 
daughter  not  so  very  long  ago.  Mr.  Omerod  al- 
most thought  it  would  do. 

More  than  once  at  dinner,  Mr.  Omerod  looked 
at  the  lady  approvingly.  Few  women  would  have 
detected,  now,  that  little  over-soupcon  of  mace, 
and  that  new  savory,  picked  up  from  Lady  Lowd- 
ham's  French  cook,  showed  she  was  observant  and 
knew  "  what  was  what." 

In  the  drawing-room,  after  dinner,  while  Miss 


190  MISS  PACKE.         [ 

Packe  gave  him  his  cup  of  coffee,  Mr.  Omerod  ex- 
amined her  critically  again.  Yes,  Miss  Packe 
would  look  well  at  the  head  of  the  table  in  Glouces- 
ter Place.     //  would  do. 

By  bedtime,  Mr.  Omerod  had  complimented 
Packie  on  her  whist — the  Squire,  who  knew  the 
lawyer  liked  a  good  rubber,  looking  his  surprise — 
and  even  managed  to  give  her  fingers  a  gentle 
squeeze  as  he  bade  her  an  emphatic  "  Good- 
night." 

On  his  next  visit,  Mr.  Omerod  brought  Packie 
a  wonderful  hamper  of  bonbons,  bristling  with 
pink  satin  bows;  he  had  had  a  run  to  Paris  on  busi- 
ness, he  explained,  and  knew,  with  a  tender  smile, 
"  ladies  liked  such  things." 

Then  came  the  present  of  a  book  all  the  world 
was  talking  about,  and  (the  lawyer  thought)  might 
possibly  not  yet  have  reached  Bathurst-Coombe. 

Miss  Packe  accepted  these  gifts  in  all  simplicity, 
and  spoke  of  Mr.  Omerod  as  a  "  thoughtful  man." 

"  You'll  lose  Packie  this  time,  and  no  mistake," 
Freddy  said  to  his  father-in-law,  when  coming  in 
one  afternoon  they  found  the  lawyer  assisting  Miss 
Packe  in  concocting  a  menu  for  a  dinner-party 
next  day. 

"  Riz  de  veau  a  la  monarque. 

Cailles  a  la  Bellevue. 

Releves. 

Chapons  braises.     Sauce  verte." 

Mr.  Omerod,  pencil  in  hand,  was  reading  with 
unction,  aloud. 


FEAA'CES  M.    MAITLAND.  I9I 

"  By  Jove  !  "  Freddy  said,  "  I  pity  Miss  Packe 
when  she's  Mrs.  O.,  and  I  pity  old  O.'s  cook." 

"  Tut,  tut,''  the  Squire  said,  but  he  was  genuinely 
put  out.  Could  there  be  any  foundation  for  what 
Freddy  suspected  ?  Omerod,  certainly,  had  been 
very  attentive  to  jMiss  Packe,  now  it  was  put  into 
his  head.  But  Miss  Packe,  at  her  age,  never  would 
be  such  a  fool  !  And  there  had  been  Dr.  Bram- 
well  !  "  Tut,  tut,  tut,  tut."  The  Squire  went  up- 
stairs in  quite  a  temper  to  dress. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  have  the  wedding  here  ?  " 
Mrs.  Price  said  next  evening  to  the  Squire  behind 
her  fan,  indicating  Mr.  Omerod  and  Miss  Packe 
with  a  Httle  nod. 

"  Wedding  !  what  wedding  ? "  the  Squire's 
voice  might  have  been  heard  all  over  the  room. 
"  There's  no  one  going  to  be  married  here,  so  far 
as  I  know.  You  don't  expect  me  to  marry,  I  sup- 
pose ?  and  Miss  Packe  ain't  likely  to  change  her 
state  " — with  a  furious  glance  at  Mr.  Omerod, 
who,  spruce,  always  gay,  a  white  camellia  in  his 
button-hole,  was  bending  over  Miss  Packe's  tea- 
tray. 

Freddy  reported  to  his  Kit  that,  impassioned  as 
the  old  fellow  might  seem,  there  was  no  romance 
about  his  conversation,  and  mimicked  his  "  and, 
my  dear  Miss  Packe,  I  may  without  hesitation  say, 
it  was  the  best  '  tortue  claire  '  I  ever  tasted  in  my 
life." 

Miss  Packe  was  rather  oppressed  by  the  lawyer's 


192  MISS  PACKE.  I 

attentions.  "  He  is  much  too  fond  of  his  dinner, 
my  dear,"  she  confided  to  Cecy  Lowdham,  which 
was  a  severe  speech  for  gentle  Miss  Packe. 

"  Jones  versus  Bathurst  "  dragged  along.  Mr. 
Omerod  went  and  came.  Freddy,  reporting  prog- 
ress to  his  Kitty  (not  just  then  allowed  to  drive), 
was  confident  of  his  bet. 

At  last  a  fatal  morning  came  when  Mr.  Omerod, 
after  a  prolonged  interview  with  Miss  Packe  in  the 
morning-room,  announced  that  he  had  business 
that  must  take  him  by  the  next  train  up  to  town  ; 
and  when  next  instructions  were  wanted  in  the 
"  Jones  versus  Bathurst  "  case,  young  Mr.  Green 
came  down  to  interv^iew  the  Squire,  and  mentioned, 
incidentally,  that  just  then  the  senior  partner  was 
much  engaged. 

A  little  flush  used  to  come  to  Packie's  cheek 
when  Freddy  Tollemache  asked  her  if  anything 
had  been  heard  lately  of  Omerod,  adding  gravely 
that  he  had  heard  on  good  authority  he  was  sufifer- 
ing  from  heart-complaint. 

It  became  quite  a  little  joke  among  the  sisters  to 
speak  of  Packie  as  a  "  dangerous  little  woman." 
"My  dear,  my  dear,"  Packie  would  expostulate, 
blushing  up  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 

The  Squire  recovered  his  serenity  when  he  found 
he  was  not  to  lose  Miss  Packe.  "  Poor  Caroline 
was  right;  she  always  said  she  was  a  sensible  wo- 
man," he  said  to  Freddy,  who  only  hemmed. 

But  the  Squire's  peace  of  mind  was  not  to  be  of 


FRANCES  M.    MAITLAND.  193 

long  duration.  One  morning  a  letter  was  handed 
to  Miss  Packe  that  caused  that  lady  some  agita- 
tion. 

"  Nothing  wrong  ?  "  the  Squire  hoped,  looking 
up  from  his  newly  opened  Times. 

"  No,  nothing  wrong.  Would  Mr.  Bathurst 
read  for  himself  ?  "  Miss  Packe,  half-laughing, 
half-crying,  handed  him  the  letter  with  trembling 
hand. 

Mr.  Bathurst  looked  rather  grimly  at  the  "Louis- 
vale,  Queensland,"  and  the  "  Dearest  Catharine  " 
that  besran  the  letter,  and  turned  with  his  more 
severe  expression  tO'  the  signature,  "  Your  affec- 
tionate brother,  John  Packe."  "  Brother  !  "  the 
Squire  almost  said  his  grace  in  his  gratitude. 
Sweethearts  had  been  getting  so  common  with 
Packie,  he  had  not  known  what  to  expect  !  John 
Packe;  he  remembered,  the  brother  that  had  not 
been  heard  of  for  years.  Well,  for  Packie's  sake 
he  was  glad  he  had  written  at  last.  He  was  not  so 
glad  as  he  read  on.  John  Packe  regretted — on  the 
thinnest  of  paper,  and  in  the  faintest  of  inks — 
that  he  had  kept  his  sister  so  long  in  ignorance  of 
his  whereabouts.  People  got  careless  at  these 
up-country  stations  somehow,  and  time  flew  faster 
than  one  realized,  and  Cathy  must  forgive  him,  as 
the  writer  knew  she  would.  Times  had  been  bad, 
too,  as  Packie  must  have  seen,  if  she  read  the  news- 
papers, which  the  writer  supposed  she  did.  In 
John's  opinion  matters  were  going  from  bad  to 


194  MISS  PACKE.  I 

worse,  and,  having  his  opportunity,  he  had  sold  his 
station,  and  was  coming  home,  if  not  a  rich  man,  a 
zvanti  one,  even  for  the  old  country,  and  Packie 
could  say  good-by  to  her  teaching  and  look  for- 
ward to  a  comfortable  home. 

"  O  Jack,  Jack  !  "  Packie — to  the  Squire's  dis- 
may— was  crying.  Was  she  glad  to  leave  them, 
then  ? 

"  He  had  taken  his  passage  in  the  Morning  Star 
and  would  be  home  nearly  as  soon  as  the  letter." 
The  Squire  had  nearly  missed  this  postscript. 

The  Morning  Star — the  Squire  had  seen  the  name 
that  very  day — he  turned  to  his  Times;  yes,  here  it 
was:  she  had  made  one  of  the  quickest  passages 
known,  had  nearly  broken  the  record  in  fact. 

"  O  Jackie,  Jackie  !  "  Miss  Packe  was  sobbing 
still.     Griffiths  had  discreetly  left  the  room. 

"  We  must  expect  to  lose  you,  I  suppose  ?  "  the 
Squire  spoke  gruffly. 

"  Oh,  indeed,  indeed  !  "  Packie  sobbed,  she 
could  say  no  more. 

Had  the  whole  world  combined  against  him  ? 
the  Squire  asked  himself.  Bramwell,  Omerod,  and 
now  this  ne'er-do-well  brother — who  nevertheless 
had  made  his  pile — from  the  end  of  the  world  ! 
The  Squire  would  not,  to  do  him  justice,  have 
grudged  Packie  any  happiness,  but  Bathurst- 
Coombe  without  her  after  all  these  years  !  Quite 
vividly  the  Squire  saw  his  solitary  meals,  his  library 
table  littered  with  the  scraps  which  only  Packie  had 


FRANCES  M.    MAITLAND.  I9S 

patience  to  put  straight  and  copy  (he  did  not  him- 
self pretend  to  be  able  to  read  the  hieroglyphics 
put  down  in  haste).  Then  Caroline  had  been  so 
fond  of  Miss  Packe  !  Poor  Caroline  !  And  Miss 
Packe  had  been  so  devoted  to  her. 

There  seemed  to  the  Squire  only  one  way  to  get 
out  of  the  difficulty.  The  resolution  was  made  in 
haste,  as  the  Squire's  resolutions  always  were.  He 
walked  round  the  table  and  laid  a  not  ungentle 
hand  on  Miss  Packe's  shoulder,  ""  Look  here,  Miss 
Packe,  be  my  wife." 

Was  the  sky  falling  !  Miss  Packe  got  up.  Stay 
as  Mr.  Bathurst's  wife  !  Take  Mrs.  Bathurst's 
place  !  What  could  the  Squire  think  of  her  to 
suggest  such  a  thing  ?  With  one  reproachful 
glance,  Miss  Packe  fled  the  room. 

"  But  what  is  it  all  about,  father  ?  "  Mary  Leake, 
who  was  staying  at  Lowdham  and  had  been  driven 
over  by  Cecy  that  afternoon,  asked. 

She  had  found  her  father  sitting  disconsolately  in 
the  library;  she  had  left  Packie  in  tears,  with  Cecy, 
up-stairs. 

The  Squire,  fidgeting  in  his  chair,  made  no  re- 
sponse. 

"  She  may  be  sorry  to  leave  us  (dear  Packie,  not 
half  so  sorry  to  leave  us  as  we  shall  be  to  lose  her), 
but  I  cannot  see  why  her  brother's  home-coming 
should  upset  her  so." 

"  Nor  I,  my  dear,"  the  Squire  said,  seeing  she 
was  waiting  for  an  answer.     And  then — he  was  an 


196  MISS  PACKE.  I 

honest  man,  and  Mary  and  he  were  bosom  friends 
— "  The  truth  is  " — the  Squire  cleared  his  throat — 
"  tut,  tut  !  tut,  tut."  He  paused  again,  looked 
hard  at  his  daughter,  and  went  desperately  on — "  I 
asked  her  to  be  my  wife  !  " 

"  Father  !  "  Mary  Leake  sat  for  a  m.oment  dis- 
mayed, then  the  ludicrous  side  of  the  affair  struck 
her,  and  she  began  to  laugh.  "  Father,  poor 
father  !  "  she  said  when  she  could  speak,  patting 
him  on  the  knee.  "  And  Packie,  poor  Packie  !  " 
She  began  to  laugh  again. 

The  Squire  sat  shame-faced.  "  Well,  my  dear, 
it  no  doubt  strikes  you  as  absurd,  but  I  didn't 
know  what  I  should  do  without  her,  you  see." 

"  Yes,  I  see."  Mary  began  to  laugh  again;  then, 
more  gravely,  "  Look  here,  father  dear,  leave  it  all 
to  me,  you  don't  want  to  marry  Packie,  and  Packie 
doesn't  want  to  marry  yon  ;  it's  all  that  wretched 
brother,  and  I'll  tell  you  what  we  must  do — marry 
him  !  Men  that  come  from  the  colonies  all  marry, 
I  think.  Have  him  down,  and  we'll  see  what  we 
can  do." 

"  Mary,"  the  Squire  said,  quite  relieved  by  this 
unburdening  of  himself,  "  you  remind  me  of  your 
poor  mother.     Poor  Caroline  !  " 

It  really  was  providential,  as  Mrs.  Price  observed 
(for  what  could  the  Squire  have  done  without  Miss 
Packe  ?)  that  John  Packe  should  have  found  his 
fate,  as  so  many  men  have  done  before  him  on 
board  ship  on  his  passage  home,  not  that  that  was 


FRANCES  M.    MAITLAND.  1 97 

to  make  any  difference,  he  assured  his  sister  ;  his 
Ellen  was  looking  forward  to  her  making  her  home 
with  them. 

"  I  told  you  so,  father,"  Mary  Leake  said  tri- 
umphantly, when  she  heard  the  news.  She  and 
her  husband  and  babies  had  come  over  from  Lowd- 
ham  that  there  might  be  no  "  awkwardness  "  for 
Packic. 

Whatever  happened,  Freddy  was  not  to  be  told, 
Cecy  and  Mary  had  agreed;  and  IMary  had  added 
in  a  guilty  whisper,  "  Cecy,  I  often  think  Freddy  is 
a  little — well,  coarse,  you  know  !  " 

Poor  Mary  had  some  difficulty  in  making  it  up 
between  Packie  and  her  father — "  that  he  should 
have  thought  I  would  do  such  a  thing,"  the  poor 
lady  always  repeated  among  her  tears — but  at  last 
peace  was  made.  She  took  Father  Every  into  her 
confidence,  and  the  priest,  not  without  a  twinkle  in 
his  eye,  gravely  assured  Packie  it  was  her  duty 
(with  emphasis)  to  stay  at  Bathurst-Coombe;  and 
after  a  solemn  shaking  of  hands  and  a  "  Tut,  tut  ! 
Miss  Packe,  you  shouldn't  have  been  so  hard  on  an 
old  man  "  from  the  Squire,  the  pair  settled  happily 
down,  "  till  death  should  them  part  " — according 
to  Freddy.  (How  did  Freddy  always  know  every- 
thing ?) 

"  Packie,  you  dangerous  little  woman  !  "  Mary 
Leake  often  said. 

"  My  dear,  it  was  never  my  fault,"  Packie  would 
humbly  protest. 


.^ .  il 


MRS.  WILLIAM  MAUDE. 


Mrs.  William  Maude  (nee  Sophie  Dora  Spicer)  was 
brought  up  in  one  of  the  lovehest  of  English  deer-parks,  her 
parents  going  to  Hve  there  when  she  was  ten  years  old,  and 
there  she  wrote  her  first  stories  in  nursery  and  schoolroom 
days,  but  these  never  appeared  in  print. 

Her  first  publication  was  a  little  story  written  in  aid  of  the 
Sick  Children's  Hospital  in  Great  Ormond  Street.  It  was 
brought  out  by  the  S.  P.  C.  K.,  and  called  "  Cyril's  Hobby- 
Horse."     The  proceeds  went  to  the  Children's  Hospital. 

A'DOut  the  same  time  (when  twelve  years  old)  she  ven- 
tured to  send  a  story  to  A/a/^  Judy  s  Magazine ,  which  was 


declined,  but  "  Aunt  Judy's  "  letter  was  religiously  treasured  ; 
a  kind,  sympathetic  lette;.  beautifully  worded  as  only  Mrs. 
Gatty  knew  how  to  write. 

"  Two  little  Hearts  '"  was  her  next  publication. 

Mrs.  Maude  was  never  sent  to  school,  but  shared  her 
younger  sisters'  masters  in  their  Belgrave  Square  school- 
room during  successive  London  seasons,  while  the  elders 
went  to  balls  and  parties. 

After  a  few  years  she  was  received  into  the  Catholic 
Church,  and  lived  some  time  abroad.  She  gave  up  writing 
for  a  while,  but  soon  began  again,  and  through  Monsignor 
Nugent,  then  editor  of  The  Fireside,  her  stories  appeared 
from  time  to  time  in  both  the  Catholic  Times  and  Catholic 
Fireside.  The  Catholic  Truth  Society  has  reprinted  one 
of  these,  "  The  Runaway  Marriage,"  and  is  now  bringing 
out  a  little  volume  of  her  short  stories. 

In  1890  she  became  Mrs.  William  Maude.  Her  husbano 
belongs  to  the  old  Yorkshire  family  of  Maude  ;  he  is  a  bar- 
rister, and  she  thinks  he  should  be  called  ••  the  children's 
friend,"  his  interest  In  the  spiritual  welfare  of  Catholic 
workhouse  infants  being  so  well  known. 

Mrs.  Maude's  book,  "The  Child  Countess,"  appeared  in 
1893,  and  she  has  another  almost  ready  which  will,  per- 
haps, lead  to  greater  thought  and  realization  of  that  spirit 
world  so  close  to  us  and  to  which  we  are  all  hastening,  the 
purgatory  where  each  suffering  soul  awaits  its  deliverance 
from  pain.  Its  present  title  is  "  A  Prisoner  of  Purgatory," 
but  it  is  not  certain  whether  it  will  be  published  under  that 
name. 


B  paste  Bucftle. 

BY  SOPHIE  MAUDE. 
I. 

"Be  merry,"  he  said,  "  sweetheart,  to-day, 
While  the  merry  birds  do  sing  ! 
Next  month  will  be  the  month  of  May, 

And  the  trees  are  blossoming  ; 
And  well  I  wot,  by  God  His  grace 
We  have  looked  this  hour,"  he  said,  "  on  the  face 
Of  one  that  shall  be  King  !" 

— May  Probyn. 

Some  time  during  the  last  century  when  men 
went  bravely  apparelled  as  their  fathers  did  before 
them,  vying  with  fair  women  in  silks  and  laces,  the 
shoe-buckle  belonged  to  a  young  prince.  You 
smile,  while  you  ask.  Is  it  a  fairy  story  ?  No, 
though  his  court  was  something  of  a  fairy's  crea- 
tion, lasting  a  night  and  a  day.  The  lines  of  life  are 
so  interwoven  and  twisted  together  that,  strangely 
enough,  the  prince's  paste  buckle  has  to  do  with  a 
long-forgotten  love-tale  in  which  he  played  no 
part,  and  there  it  lies  hidden  away  among  the 
brown  rose-leaves  and  dead  lavender  stalks  of  a 
century. 


201 


202  A    PASTE  BUCKLE. 

Just  SO  long  ago  as  our  great -^r^a^grandmoth- 
ers'  days,  a  boy  went  singing  up  and  down  near  a 
beautiful  fountain,  where  pigeons  were  sunning 
their  purple  breasts  by  the  rushing  water.  His 
sweet  voice  mingled  with  the  roar  and  splash  of 
great  cascades  in  the  pathetic  strains  of  Palestri- 
na's  music.  He  was  learning  part  of  the  Mass 
called  after  Pope  Marcellus,  and  stood  still  now  and 
again  to  repeat  a  bar  or  two,  beating  the  air  with 
uplifted  hand  to  mark  the  time.  The  pigeons  were 
the  only  audience  in  this  street  rehearsal.  It  was 
just  midday.  A  few  women  came  drowsily  along. 
Men  were  sleeping  on  the  street-corners,  there  was 
a  clanging  of  bells  overhead.  They  seemed  ever 
so  slightly  to  stir  the  warm,  scented  air.  The  boy 
finished  his  song  and  turned  away  down  the  street, 
his  long,  scanty  cassock  throwing  a  sharp  black 
shadow  behind  him.  In  the  villa  gardens  over  the 
wall  the  oranges  and  lemons  hung  themselves  out 
like  gold  and  silver  balls.  A  new  song,  yet  ever 
old,  the  birds  sang  to  their  mates,  and  the  trees 
were  just  budding  into  blossom.  The  boy,  too, 
went  a-wooing.  His  love  was  a  nut-brown  maid, 
beautiful  to  look  upon,  with  sparkling  eyes  and 
raven  hair,  and  they  wandered  hand-in-hand 
through  golden  orange  groves  to  the  tune  of  the 
old,  old  song  the  birds  kept  singing.  Overhead 
the  tree-trunks  were  hidden  by  a  growth  of  creep- 
ing glory,  white  and  purple  blossoms  against  the 
blue  ethereal  sky  of  Italy. 


SOPHIE   MAUDE.  203 

It  was  pleasant  to  look  upon  those  two:  to  see 
the  boy's  fearless  love,  and  the  girl's  soft  glances 
W'here  the  warm  red  blushes  came  through  her  rich 
brown  skin. 

"  I  think  the  winter  should  never  come,"  she 
murmured,  slipping  down  among  the  grasses;  "  it 
would  be  sweet  to  have  spring  always,  only 
spring  !  "  She  gave  a  little  shiver,  and  just  then  a 
shadow  came  across  the  sun.  Some  one  was  ap- 
proaching stealthily  over  the  mossy  turf,  and  a 
voice  spoke  before  she  was  well  aware  of  a  strange 
presence  there. 

"  Bella  mia,  permit  me."  A  kiss  upon  her  cheek, 
and  a  hand  laid  caressingly  on  her  hair — a  white 
hand  flashing  with  rings.  All  the  brightness  van- 
ished with  the  sound  of  her  scream.  The  boy 
sprang  to  his  feet  while  her  frightened  cry  rang 
up  among  the  trees.  The  face  was  hidden  from 
her  against  the  glaring  sunlight,  and  the  boy  with 
all  the  strength  of  a  young  lion  rushed  upon  the 
unknown,  who,  not  prepared  for  this  sudden 
charge,  reeled  backward  into  the  arms  of  a  young 
man  following  closely  upon  his  heels. 

"  Per  Bacco  !  'tis  an  infant  Hercules.  Excuse 
me,  signor,  but  to  sip  honey  from  so  fair  a  flower 
is  the  pleasure,  nay,  the  positive  duty  of  every  cav- 
alier ! " 

But  his  companion  dragged  him  back,  expostu- 
lating. "  Nay,  let  him  be,  Vitalio,  you  have 
worked  the  very  mischief  here;  the  lady  is  fright- 


204  A    PASTE  BUCKLE.      ( 

ened — make  apology  for  so  ill  a  part  !  "  The 
voice  and  its  refined  accents  sounded  pleasant 
enough,  but  the  boy  panted  with  rage,  scowling 
angrily  into  eyes  that  met  his  own  with  the  light 
of  a  good-humored  smile. 

"You  appear  amused,  signor,  but  I  am  not.  This 
lady  is  my  affianced  wife  and  you  have  offered  her 
an  insult  !  "  The  girl  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  was 
clinging  with  a  pretty  gesture  of  confidence  to  her 
lover's  side;  he  put  his  arm  around  her  and  felt 
proud  in  that  moment  to  be  her  strong  protector. 

The  slight  boyish  figure  and  shy  dignity  with 
which  he  stood  brought  another  smile  into  the 
stranger's  face — not  a  happy  smile,  neither  was 
the  face  a  pleasant  one.  His  companion  spoke  in 
low  musical  speech: 

"  Who  are  you?  Let  me  have  your  name,  young 
sir,"  he  said.  The  tone  was  one  of  authority,  and  it 
surprised  and  disconcerted  the  boy.  He  had  much 
ado  to  set  aside  his  blustering  anger,  while  his 
sweetheart  pulled  his  sleeve  and  whispered  : 

"  Don't  be  angry,  amor  mio  !  Answer  him 
nicely,  he's  a  great  gentleman  and  looks  kind." 

"  I  am  Felice  Morelli,  one  of  the  singers  at  Sant* 
Andrea  delle  Fratte,"  began  the  boy  thus 
prompted. 

"  His  voice  is  lovely,"  the  girl  broke  in 
eagerly. 

"  I  live  at  Palazzo  Poli,  and  I — that  is,  we — are 
betrothed  and  to  be  married  some  day." 


SOPHIE   MAUDE.  205 

"  Bella  voce  ?  "  questioned  the  younger  of  the 
two  men  in  his  musical  voice  that  in  itself  attracted 
the  lad  even  if  it  had  not  been  accompanied  by  a 
face  of  more  than  ordinary  beauty.  "  I  have  it  !  I 
will  make  you  one  of  our  own  musicians.  Come 
to-morrow  about  noon  to  Palazzo  Muta-Savorelli; 
you  understand  me,  caro  mio  ?  And  meantime 
consider  yourself  as  engaged  in  our  service.  Will 
that  make  up  for  the  stupid  impertinence  to  your 
pretty  promcssa  sposa  ?  "  A  careless  nod  and  wave 
of  a  jewelled  hand,  and  then  the  two  gentlemen 
had  passed  out  of  sight.  The  boy  and  girl  were 
left  standing  alone. 

'*  What  eyes  !  What  a  face  !  Maria  santis- 
sinia,  he  is  some  one  very  great  and  grand  !  "  ex- 
claimed the  nut-brown  maid. 

"  Did  you  hear  him  ?  Palazzo  Savorelli  !  My 
fortune  is  made."  Then  out  of  the  very  joy  of 
their  hearts  those  two  took  hands  and  began  gam- 
bolling over  the  grass  under  the  glorious  blossom- 
ing creepers  that  swung  above  their  heads  in  tri- 
umphal arches  and  scattered  petals  of  bright  gold 
under  their  dancing  feet.  It  was  only  when  they 
stopped  to  rest  that  the  boy  could  find  breath  to 
say:  "  It  is  the  Principe  Carlo  Edoardo,  and  he  is  a 
king's  son  ! " 

Here  was  wonderful  news  indeed,  and  the  two 
bade  each  other  good-by,  Tita  to  return  to  her  Aunt 
Beppa  Elisabetta,  Felice  to  run  home  to  his  mother 
at  the  Cardinal's  Palace  where  they  lodged.     Fe- 


/ 

206  A   PASTE  BUCKLE.     ' 

lice  was  no  prince  though  he  Hved  under  the  same 
roof  with  a  Cardinal  of  the  Holy  Roman  Church, 
and  though  his  mother  Concetta  wore  real  pearls 
in  her  great  gold  earrings  fit  for  a  princess  ! 

II. 

Not  far  from  Sant'  Andrea  delle  Fratte  a  great 
portico  stands  back,  and  into  its  yawning  depths, 
out  of  the  sunshine,  plunged  Felice.  Up  wide 
stairs,  across  a  dim  cloister  of  white  statues  and  ca- 
mellia-trees to  a  cool  loggia  at  the  top  of  the  palace. 
There  a  queer  shuttered  window  in  a  little  room 
was  hung  with  pale,  tender-hued  vine-leaves,  fram- 
ing as  in  a  picture  the  grandest  dome  in  the  world. 
It  was  a  picture  that  greeted  his  waking  eyes,  and 
it  was  the  last  they  fell  upon  at  night  across  the 
city's  twinkling  lamps.  It  was  like  music  to  his 
soul,  and  the  boy  loved  it,  the  music  of  light  and 
beauty.  To-day  his  mother  was  waiting  for  him, 
and  hastened  to  lay  aside  her  spinning  as  his  dark 
head  appeared  above  the  last  step  of  the  long  stairs. 

"  There  is  news  to-day,  glorious  news!  "  he  cried, 
and  over  a  bowl  of  savory  mess  Felice  told  the 
story  of  the  prince,  carefully  omitting  the  cour- 
tier's rude  insult  to  his  fiancee.  "  You  will  be  glad 
now,  madrc  inia  !  You  will  let  us  soon  be  wedded  ? 
My  fortune  is  made,  I  shall  have  a  big  salary  and 
ever  so  many  fine  clothes." 

"  I  looked  to  a  better  wife  for  my  son  than  that 
little  girl  from  Spoleto  !  "  said  Concetta. 


/ 

SOPHIE   MAUDE.  207 

And  Felice  answered  as  he  had  often  answered 
before  :  "  She  is  a  rose  among  flowers  ;  she  is 
more  beautiful  than  any  other  girl  of  them  all  when 
they  come  to  draw  water  at  the  fountain.  My 
Tita  carries  her  head  like  a  swan,  and  her  white 
teeth,  when  she  smiles,  twinkle  like  stars  !  And 
did  you  ever  see  hair  like  hers  ?  Black  as  night, 
with  a  bright  tinge  from  the  sun;  and  such  arms, 
such  a  neck,  and  little  fairy  feet  that  trip  so  daintily 
over  the  stones.  Ah,  madre  mia,  you  are  hard  to 
please  indeed  !  " 

"  But  have  I  not  always  said  so  ?  Do  these 
make  qualities  for  a  wife  ?  Have  you  asked  if  she 
can  spin  the  cjuicker  for  all  her  beauty  ?  or  sew,  or 
cook  the  best  among  them  all  ?  Do  you  know 
whether  she  is  sweet  or  sour  ?  or  what  dota  she  may 
bring  her  husband  ?  " 

"  Sweet  she  is  as  any  summer  flower;  and  as  to 
her  portion,  when  I  am  singer  up  at  the  Palace 
yonder  I  shall  earn  enough  and  to  spare  for  us  both." 

"  You  are  too  young,  I  tell  you,  to  think  of  mar- 
riage; and  as  to  Tita,  a  month  ago  she  wasn't  in 
Rome.     I  pray  you  what  do  you  know  of  her  ?  " 

Concetta  raised  her  hands  and  cast  up  her  eyes 
to  heaven,  while  her  son  repeated  musingly:  "  A 
month  ago — yes,  just  that  time  I  have  known  her. 
She  came  from  Spoleto  to  lodge  with  her  Aunt 
Beppa  Elisabetta,  just  a  month  ago  !  " 

"  Pazienza,  bright  eyes  and  white  teeth  don't  go 
to  make  steady  housewives " 


/ 

208  A    PASTE  BUCKLE.  ' 

But  Felice  was  out  in  the  loggia  by  this  time, 
putting  an  end  to  the  conversation.  Would  his 
mother  never  consent  to  their  union  ?  In  Italy 
marriage  is  not  thought  of  without  a  parent's 
blessing.  Felice  was  nineteen  and  Tita  three 
years  younger.  The  boy  and  girl  were  be- 
trothed, btit  Concetta  refused  to  give  her  con- 
sent further  than  this.  He  would  fain  have 
presented  his  bride  with  the  ancient  heirloom  his 
mother  wore  upon  her  fat  middle  finger — a  ring 
with  a  strange  foreign  inscription,  with  a  miniature 
painting,  and  a  beautiful  pearl  for  constancy.  It 
had  been  Concetta's  own  betrothal-ring,  and  was 
given  her  by  that  great  northern  lady,  Felice's  for- 
eign grandmother.  But  Concetta  stoutly  refused 
it  except  to  a  daughter-in-law  of  her  own  choosing. 
"  I  will  never  give  it  you,  or  my  blessing  either. 
You  espouse  her  over  the  dead  body  of  your  bro- 
ken-hearted mother  !  "  she  would  exclaim  tragi- 
cally. "  There's  Marietta,  a  good  steady  girl,  and 
Gemma,  my  own  godchild,  and  Assunta  of  the 
Trastevere,  and  Maria  of  the  Drogheria  (where 
your  poor  father  always  went  for  his  apothecary 

stuff),  and  Lucia "    But  here  the  list  of  eligible 

partners  would  break  off  and  the  poor  woman  al- 
ways burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  crying  which  her  son 
vainly  endeavored  to  assuage. 

He  had  kept  all  his  savings  for  the  purchase  of  a 
betrothal-ring  of  cunning  workmanship — two 
hearts  transfixed  by  cupid's  dart  upon  a  blue  en- 


SOPHIE  MAUDE.  209 

amelled  ground — and  now  there  was  a  prospect  of 
riches  in  the  future,  it  would  be  hard  indeed  if  his 
mother  did  not  give  her  consent.  The  prince  had 
come  to  set  all  things  straight  like  the  fairy  prince 
in  a  story-book  !  This  was  his  thought  as  he 
stayed  to  draw  water  from  the  loggia.  With  what 
a  noise  and  splash  the  bucket  slipped  into  the  well, 
and  the  boy's  strong  young  arms  pulhng  at  the 
rope,  up  it  came,  scattering  great  sparkling  drops 
as  the  sun  caught  and  kissed  the  overflowing  rim 
into  a  thousand  diamond  flashes.  To  Felice's 
happy  eyes  even  the  battered  old  bucket  looked 
glorified  then.  And  Felice's  mother,  like  many 
another,  was  obliged  to  keep  her  forebodings  to 
herself,  since  the  young  must  learn  by  hard  ex- 
perience what  they  won't  take  second-hand  from 
the  old.  And  out  in  the  mellow  sunset,  when  the 
bells  rang  Ave  Maria,  the  boy  went  on  repeating 
his  oft-told  tale  of  love  to  the  beautiful  girl  at  the 
fountain-side. 

A  week  more  and  Felice  had  become  one  of  the 
king's  musicians,  his  threadbare  cassock  was  ex- 
changed for  the  black  velvet  and  silk  stockings  of 
the  gentlemen  choristers,  and  his  hair  curled  unon 
a  fine  white  ruff.  "  You  only  want  a  gold  cha  n  " 
said  his  mother,  "  to  look  the  gentleman  born 
indeed  you  are  !  "  And  she  nodded  her  head  mys- 
teriously towards  the  old  oak  chest  where  she  ke- '. 
the  ring  of  British  workmanship,  the  heirloom 
from  his  English  grandmother. 


2lO  A   PASTE  BUCKLE. 


III. 

Oh,  green  is  forsaken 

And  yellow's  forsworn, 

But  blue  is  the  prettiest  color  that's  worn! 

— Old  Ballad. 

TiTA  had  played  at  love,  had  broken  hearts  be- 
fore she  was  fifteen  !  When  she  left  Tivoli  to 
make  her  home  with  her  aunt  in  Rome,  it  was  with 
strict  injunctions  from  her  madrc  to  Beppa  that 
she  would  look  carefully  after  Tita,  and  get  her 
speedily  married.  Tita's  aunt  thought  her  duty 
done  when  she  chose  the  son  of  her  old  friend 
Concetta  Morelli — the  son  who  inherited  all  his 
father's  musical  talent,  and  must  some  day  rise 
above  the  common  grade  of  peasant.  But  the  girl 
had  promised  herself  "  a  gentleman  husband." 
The  fatal  day  came  when  a  pair  of  bold  black  eyes 
fascinated  her,  and  when  Felice  came  to  her  in  his 
sorrow,  "  I  am  sent  to  England  by  the  Prince's 
own  desire  !  "  a  strange  triumphant  gleam  shot 
from  Tita's  cat-like  eyes.     "  My  love,"   he  said, 

"  we  must  part  !     England  is  far  away "  a  sob 

rose  in  his  voice. 

"  To  England  ?  You  are  sent  to  England  ?  " 
Again  the  wild  gleam  in  her  eyes,  but  it  died  out 
immediately. 

"Amor  mio,  I  am  sent  to  carry  despatches  from 
the  English  King  to  his  own  people.       I  have  a 


SOPHIE  MAUDE.  211 

buckle  from  the  Prince's  shoe — a  pledge  from  His 
Highness  to  the  great  lord  to  whom  I  am  sent. 
Yes,  a  poor  musician  is  the  best  disguise  for  the 
safety  of  the  papers;  no  warrior  among  them  all 
can  go  so  safely  as  your  poor  Felice  !  " 

"  But  such  a  long  journey  !  "  she  said  feverishly, 
while  her  eyes  glittered. 

"  Yes,  and  the  expense  is  undertaken  by  our  old 
enemy  the  wicked  Marchese.  But  yes,  is  it  not 
wonderful  ?  I  shall  earn  the  King's  favor,  but 
I  would  sooner  not  have  been  beholden  to  the  man 
who  insulted  you,  carina  !  Do  not  turn  away  your 
head,  my  dove,  my  dear  one;  the  parting  will  be 
over  so'me  day, — and  then " 

His  voice  had  a  triumphal  ring  in  it  of  the  joy  to 
come.  Her  shallow  girl's  heart  felt  at  that  instant 
the  sharp  stabs  of  remorse.  "  It  is  Our  Lady's 
month,  a  happy  omen.  Will  you  wear  a  knot  of 
blue  ribbon  for  me,  against  my  return  ?  "  asked  the 
young  lover  with  the  ribbon  in  his  hand.  "  In- 
deed I  know  you  will  be  true  to  me."  How  could 
he  doubt  her,  whose  own  nature  was  all  truth  and 
loyalty  ? 

The  girl  answered  grudgingly  that  blue  became 
her  ill,  but  she  would  "  see  about  it."  With  that 
half  promise  Felice  started  on  his  journey. 

Our  Lady's  month.  Mass  heard  in  the  church 
he  loved  so  well,  and  then  Rome  was  behind  him, 
and  his  heart  beat  quick.  Is  it  not  a  marvellous 
thing,  the  first  setting  forth  on  a  journey,  when  one 


■     / 

/ 
212  A    PASTE  BUCKLE. 

is  only  nineteen  and  the  long  untried  years  still 
lie  before  one  in  the  future's  golden  womb,  mys- 
terious and  unknown  ? 

The  boy's  first  resting-place  was  hardly  passed 
when  a  messenger  overtook  him.  Felice  recog- 
nized the  livery  of  the  Marchese's  servants  ;  and 
while  he  wondered,  the  messenger  had  thrust  a 
packet  into  his  hand,  and  immediately  galloped  off. 
All  Tita's  treachery  was  known  to  him  when  he 
broke  the  seal.  She  was  to  be  married  that  morn- 
ing to  the  evil  man  who  had  bewitched  her,  and 
she  had  chosen  the  time  when  Felice,  bound  by 
royal  command,  was  powerless  to  go  and  save 
her  !  The  boy  flung  himself  on  the  ground  in 
those  first  moments  of  agony.  His  fierce  southern 
nature  prompted  him  to  call  death  to  his  aid  in  his 
despair,  but  something,  he  knew  not  what,  re- 
strained him  in  his  mad  desire.  Was  it  the  protec- 
tion of  the  Sacred  Heart,  the  presence  of  One  un- 
seen to  whom  Mary's  children  are  specially  dear  ? 

There  was  one  drop  of  comfort  even  now — a 
broken-hearted  but  very  loving  letter  came  to  him 
from  his  mother.  It  was  written  by  the  public 
letter-writer  on  the  piazza,  and,  wrapped  in  the 
thick  parchment-sheet,  lay  the  ring  he  had  so  often 
longed  for,  his  grandmother's  miniature  set  in  Eng- 
lish gold. 

Felice  felt  he  cared  nothing  for  it  now,  but  he 
tied  it  up  carefully  in  its  paper  wrappings  and 
placed  it  with  the  prince's  paste  buckle  under  his 


SOPHIE  MAUDE.  21  ^ 

jacket,  before  he  went  on  his  journey.  But  the 
song  he  had  set  out  with  in  the  morning  was 
hushed.  His  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  The  glory 
of  the  night  was  spread  above  him  now,  but  he  saw 
nothing  of  its  beauty.  The  long  vine-tendrils  took 
hands  across  fields  of  blue  flax  and  odoriferous 
clover.  They  seemed  to  dance  airy  dances  above 
the  flower-cups  in  the  pale  moonlight,  the  southern 
stars  shone  like  globes  of  golden  splendor,  and  the 
fireflies  glittered,  but  he  only  saw  them  through 
a  vale  of  tears.  Yet  in  the  years  to  come  when 
Felice's  youth  was  past,  the  man  thanked  God  for 
the  boy's  crucible  of  pain  ! 


IV. 

j^The  little  god  of  love. 

— Nursery  Rhyme. 

The  first  day  of  October  had  come.  Eldred 
Manor  House  with  its  shady  lawns  and  high  beech 
hedges,  four  centuries  old,  under  the  green  Berk- 
shire downs,  looked  cool  and  inviting  in  the  hot  af- 
ternoon. The  harvest  was  late  this  year,  but  now 
the  corn  was  all  carried.  All  the  village  of  Eldred 
had  turned  out  to  assist  in  the  carrying.  The 
Squire  rode  up  the  lane  on  his  big  cob  and  the 
neighbors  had  come  to  the  harvest  feast.  It  was  all  a 
familiar  scene  to  English  eyes.  After  the  supper 
was  over  and  the  Squire's  good  cider  had  made 


214  A    PASTE  BUCKLE.      [ 

even  the  least  jovial  merry,  the  fiddler  was  called 
for,  and  the  tables  were  removed  for  a  dance  on  the 
sward,  but  there  was  a  cry  of  consternation  when 
the  news  went  round  that  the  musician  had  cut 
his  hand  and  could  not  play.  One  or  two  of  those 
present  offered  to  supply  his  place,  but  they  were 
received  with  dubious  shakes  of  the  head  from 
those  who  knew  the  musical  prowess  of  these  vol- 
unteers. A  disappointed  silence  succeeded  the 
hum  of  voices  at  first  eagerly  raised,  but  the 
Squire,  unwilling  to  be  balked  of  his  favorite  pas- 
time, led  out  the  prettiest  of  his  tenants  from  the 
crowd  and,  humming  a  snatch,  kept  time  with  his 
nail-studded  boots  to  the  girl's  tripping  feet  upon 
the  grass.  Just  at  this  moment,  while  a  few  rough 
voices,  much  out  of  time  and  tune,  followed  the 
gentleman's  lead,  the  damsels  timidly  elbowing 
their  chosen  swains,  the  portly  butler  advanced 
and  announced  "  a  foreign  gentleman  who  had 
brought  his  fiddle  all  the  way  from  Italy,  and  would 
his  worship  be  pleased  to  hear  the  lad  play  ?  " 

"  Mind  the  forks  and  spoons  !  "  cautioned  his 
worship  in  an  audible  aside.  "  Yes,  Robbins, 
bring  him   in;  we  want  music  badly — music   we 

must  have  at  any  price,  since  Dan  the  fiddler " 

His  further  speech  was  cut  short  by  the  entrance  of 
a  pale  young  man,  dark-eyed  and  dark-haired,  in 
velvet  coat  and  small-clothes  frayed  and  worn, 
and  powdered  with  white  dust  from  the  road, — a 
slender  youth, — who  bowed  low  to  the  company, 


SOPHIE   MAUDE.  21 5 

and  with  hands  that  evidently  trembled  with  ex- 
haustion commenced  to  draw  out  a  small  violin 
from  a  shabby  leathern  case.  Felice  ?  Yes,  it 
was  Felice  !  White-lipped,  haggard,  tired  out 
with  his  weary  march  through  unfamiliar  scenes 
and  hard,  rough  ways — he  had  travelled  most  of 
the  way  on  foot.  He  looked  round  on  the  strange 
English  faces.  Most  of  them  met  his  weary  gaze 
with  a  stolid  bucolic  stare.  He  had  not  broken  his 
fast  for  twenty-four  long  hours,  but  Eldred  was  the 
village  marked  on  his  rough  pocket-map,  the  near- 
est to  Rackenford,  whither  he  was  bound  with 
those  precious  letters,  the  despatches  from  King 
James  HI.  If  these  good  people  would  reward  his 
fiddling  with  a  few  silver  coins,  he  could  pay  his 
way  to  the  castle,  where  his  long  journey  would 
end  at  last.  If  only  the  mist  before  his  eyes  would 
clear,  if  only  his  hands  would  not  shake  so  that  he 
could  hold  his  bow  at  the  proper  angle  and  play 
the  dance-music  required. 

"  Father  " — would  he  ever  forget  the  dear  ac- 
cents of  that  sweet  voice  ?  The  tones  of  it  must 
needs  make  music  in  the  spheres — "  Father,  see, 
the  young  musician  is  faint,  he  must  not  play  till 
he  has  broken  his  fast." 

Through  the  mist  that  has  somehow  gathered  in 
his  poor  tired  eyes,  Felice  sees  a  tender  girlish 
form,  a  fair  face  wreathed  in  golden  hair,  the  eyes 
as  blue  as  speedwells — ethereal  china-blue  that  is 
so  seldom  seen,  except  perhaps  in  little  children's 


2l6  A   PASTE  BUCKLE.     { 

eyes — what  wonder  if  the  young  ItaHan  take  this 
fair  EngHsh  maiden  for  an  angel,  his  guardian  an- 
gel, come  to  succor  him  in  his  last  hour  ? 

A  wall  of  great  darkness  is  shutting  him  in,  there 
is  a  sound  like  many  waters  in  his  ears,  and,  with 
no  word  of  warning,  he  suddenly  falls  in  a  death- 
like faint  upon  the  grass. 

"  Bless  my  soul  !  "  ejaculates  the  Squire,  "  don't 
be  frightened,  Pen;  don't  be  alarmed,  dear  heart; 
the  heat  has  overcome  him,  but  he  is  not  dying, — 
no,  nor  near  it.  Bring  some  wine,  Robbins,  stand 
back,  good  people,  so — he'll  revive  if  you'll  give 
him  time." 

But  Felice  does  not  revive  though  the  simple 
people  do  all  they  know,  and  after  awhile  they  lift 
up  his  prostrate  form  and  carry  him,  still  sleeping 
that  sleep  of  death,  across  the  grass  and  into  the 
house.  The  long  swoon  lasts  till  the  sunset  is 
flooding  the  old  dark  walls  with  blood-tints  and 
splashing  all  the  white  bed  where  he  lies  in  a  crim- 
son lake.  The  boy  starts  up  in  horror,  his  eyes 
wide  opened.  He  cries  faintly,  "  Is  it  blood  ? 
Have  they  killed  me  ?  Are  the  letters  safe  ?  He 
falls  back  shuddering,  but  a  soft  hand  is  laid  on  his 
rm.  and  gentle  tones  murmur  words  of  rest  and 
comfort.  His  fluttering  eyelids  close,  and  he  falls 
asleep  to  dream  of  the  angel  with  blue  eyes  and 
golden  hair.  When  he  wakes  again  the  angel  is 
by  his  side.  She  brings  wine  and  food  and  raises 
him  in   her  arms  to   drink,   while   a  faint   blush 


SOPHIE   MAUDE.  21/ 

overspreads  her  fair  face  beneath  his  eyes  fixed  so 
earnestly  upon  her. 

"  I  think  I  have  been  dreaming,"  he  says;  "pray, 
madam,  tell  me  who  you  are  and  where  I  am." 
English  is  easy  now  to  Felice. 

"  This  is  Eldred  Manor  House,  and  my  father  has 
ridden  for  help,  but  the  physician  is  difficult  to  find 
and  may  be  long  a-coming.  I  am  glad  you  can 
eat;  it  is  better  than  medicine,  sir." 

"  But  what  is  your  father's  name,  and  who  are 
you  ?  "  the  lad  asks  with  simple  directness. 

"  My  father  is  Squire  Mornington,  and  I  am  his 
daughter  Penelope.  I  have  no  mother;  she  died, 
sir,  a  long  time  back.  Oh  !  we  were  very  sorry  to 
see  you  fall  ill.     Ah,  but  you  are  better  !  " 

"  Have  I  been  ill  ?  Yes,  I  remember  now."  He 
draws  his  hand,  so  slender  and  white,  across  his 
eyes.  How  fine  the  ruffles  are  at  his  wrists  ! 
Surely,  she  thinks,  in  spite  of  such  worn  attire,  the 
young  musician  must  be  a  gentleman  !  While  she 
wonders  about  him,  his  thoughts  are  of  her,  and 
their  eyes  meeting — was  it  then  ? — a  flash  of  sym- 
pathy like  a  chain  of  gold  draws  their  hearts  to- 
gether. The  girl's  two  hands  are  clasped  upon  her 
knee  as  she  sits  demurely  at  the  window,  a'  fairy 
thing  with  her  wreath  of  yellow  hair  and  eyes 
like  blue  forget-me-nots.  She  hastily  averts  them 
when  they  meet  his  own,  and  this  is  how  Felice 
came  to  know  Penelope — Penelope  Mornington  ! 


2l8  A    PASTE   BUCKLE.     I 

V. 

"  Loyal  je  serai  durant  ma  vie  ! " 

— Song. 

The  days  that  followed  were  the  sunniest,  and 
that  particular  October  month  was  the  brightest, 
that  had  ever  dawned  on  this  old  wicked  world  of 
ours  since  it  first  began.  Penelope  could  not  have 
told  you,  she  could  not  have  analyzed  her  feelings, 
but  she  knew  that  she  was  happy — yes,  happy  as 
the  day  was  long  !  True,  the  despatches  had  to  be 
taken  to  their  destination,  and  her  new  friend  bade 
her  farewell  for  at  least  three  days,  but  what  did 
that  signify  ?  Did  not  her  father,  at  heart  an  ar- 
dent Jacobite,  mount  Felice  on  his  own  best  horse, 
and  allow  Penelope  to  be  of  the  party  to  Racken- 
ford  Castle  ? 

Felice  was  received  as  a  distinguished  guest,  the 
prince's  ambassador,  the  honored  messenger  from 
"  the  king  over  the  water." 

The  boy  wore  his  laurels  modestly.  When  op- 
portunity served  he  told  of  his  poverty  and  of  the 
prince's  kindness,  and  how  he  hoped  some  day  to 
gain  distinction  in  music. 

The  great  man  to  whom  he  delivered  his  des- 
patches, and  with  them  his  precious  pledge,  the 
Prince  of  Wales'  buckle — the  shoe-buckle  that 
shone  like  diamonds,  but  that  was  only  paste, 
for  the  diamonds  had  been  pawned  long  agO'^ 
admired     Felice's     voice     and     offered     a     high 


SOPHIE   MAUDE.  219 

price  if  the  lad  would  accept  the  post  of  tenor 
among  the  singers  at  Rackenford  Castle.  His 
Majesty  King  James  could  ill  afford  to  pay  his  mu- 
sicians even  the  small  salary  allowed  them  ;  gold  was 
more  plentiful  in  an  English  castle  than  a  Roman 
palace.  But  the  boy,  true  to  his  allegiance,  refused 
the  tempting  bribe.  The  county  people,  following 
the  example  of  the  great  lord  who  patronized  the 
stranger,  engaged  Felice  to  sing  and  play  at  their 
syllabub  parties  and  fashionable  entertainments. 
He  gave  music-lessons  to  the  squires'  wives  and 
daughters.  Haughty  young  madams  fresh  from 
town  invited  the  handsome  Italian  to  their  coun- 
try-houses. 

The  castle  was  Felice's  home  until  he  should 
earn  sufficient  to  pay  his  journey  back  to  Rome, 
but  his  happiest  days  were  spent  at  the  old  house 
amid  the  Berkshire  downs.  During  his  hours  of 
work  or  recreation  his  thoughts  were  with  Penel- 
ope in  the  music-room  at  Eldred  Manor.  There 
was  always  one  face  he  could  not  forget,  one  voice 
that — school  his  heart,  control  it  as  he  would — 
set  his  pulses  beating  and  made  his  eyes  grow 
bright.  When  the  young  companions  who  came 
to  share  Mistress  Mornington's  lessons  had  re- 
turned home,  the  boy  master  and  his  pupil  would 
sit  and  talk  in  the  deep  embrasure  of  the  window 
or  by  the  chimney-corner.  When  the  Squire  came 
in  early  from  the  hunting-field  and  saw  them  thus, 
he  was  glad  to  find  his  lonely  child  so  well  amused. 


220  A   PASTE  BUCKLE. 

"  Pen  is  a  baby  yet,  in  pinafores  but  yesterday," 
he  told  himself;  "  there  is  no  danger  !  "  and  with 
that  dismissed  the  subject. 

Penelope  could  not  hear  too  often,  could  not 
ask  enough  about  the  royal  princes  exiled  for  the 
faith.  She  saw  the  paste  buckle  when  Felice 
handed  it  to  the  personage  to  whom  it  was  sent, 
and  had  knelt  in  simple  reverence  to  kiss  the  royal 
crown  above  the  brilliant  setting  of  the  stones. 

One  day  in  the  twilight  he  showed  her  his  moth- 
er's ring.  He  had  only  regarded  it  carelessly  in 
his  dejection  at  Tita's  treachery.  Now  he  was 
startled  to  meet  Penelope's  blue  eyes  looking  at 
him  out  of  the  miniature.  "  It  might  be  your  por- 
trait, dear  madam  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  it  is  so  like — 
so  like  !  " 

"  And  here  is  our  name,"  cried  the  girl,  and  she 
read  in  the  fading  light,  "P.  Mornington."  "How 
marvellous  !  "  They  could  talk  of  nothing  else. 
But  when  Penelope,  in  the  innocence  of  her  heart, 
desirous  that  her  father  should  share  her  pleasure 
in  this  "  new-found  cousin,"  showed  Felice's  ring, 
the  Squire  spoke  coldly  of  "  poor  relations  "  and 
muttered  something  about  "  a  mesalliance  in  the 
past."  Happily  the  young  man  did  not  hear,  for 
the  hot  southern  blood  in  his  veins  would  not  have 
borne  the  insult. 

The  time  had  come  for  his  departure,  and  alas  ! 
they  two  were  lovers.  Felice's  heart  was  in  Pe- 
nelope's keeping.     Penelope's  heart  beat  only  for 


SOPHIE  AIAUDE.  221 

him.  The  golden  hours  had  shpped  away  so 
quickly,  Felice's  birthdays  had  come  and  gone. 
He  was  twenty-one.  She  was  just  eighteen.  Ah, 
love  at  eighteen  !  Penelope  could  not  hide  it,  she 
would  not  have  hidden  it  if  she  could.  On  the 
morning  that  her  lover  said  farewell,  she  flung  her- 
self weeping  into  her  father's  arms  and  asked  to 
cross  seas  with  Felice  as  his  wedded  wife.  Felice 
on  his  knees  before  the  Squire  with  southern  ve- 
hemence declared  his  willingness  to  wait,  as  Ra- 
chel's lover  waited — to  work  seven  years  if  need 
be  for  the  lady  of  his  heart.  The  sequel  might 
have  been  expected,  but  it  was  none  the  less  heart- 
breaking, when  the  Squire  drove  him  from  the 
room  and  from  the  house,  swearing  great  oaths 
at  the  foreigner's  impertinence,  vowing  to  horse- 
whip the  presumptuous  stranger  round  the  market- 
place. 

And  amid  the  storm  of  bitter  reproaches,  Penel- 
ope's lover  was  forced  to  ride  away  sobbing — yes, 
his  manhood  was  not  ashamed  by  those  tears — 
weeping  because  he  must  see  his  love  no  more. 

Many  months  after,  Felice  knelt  before  the 
shrine  of  the  apostles  in  great  St.  Peter's,  as  he 
had  knelt  with  Penelope  in  the  rustic  chapel  at  El- 
dred — the  old  church  that  had  never  been  dese- 
crated by  Protestant  worship.  The  Mornlngtons 
were  Catholics  like  their  ancestors  before  them, 
and  he  could  picture  the  girl  he  loved  pouring  out 
her  heart  in  prayer  for  him.     Felice's  mother  was 


222  A    PASTE  BUCKLE. 

dead.  It  was  not  long  after  this  that  the  Squire 
of  Eldred,  outlawed  and  a  beggar,  his  estates  con- 
fiscated in  the  cause  of  King  James  III.,  fled  for  his 
life,  and  the  lovers  met  once  more.  It  was  in 
Rome  at  the  royal  palace  where  the  King  lived. 
Felice  had  been  appointed  "  Chapel  Master  ;"  the 
King  had  knighted  him  in  honor  of  his  successful 
mission  to  England. 

Penelope  Mornington  and  her  true  knight  were 
happily  married,  and  though  the  most  disastrous 
page  of  modern  history  was  unfolded  before  them, 
their  own  lot  was  a  peaceful  one.  The  Squire 
found  comfort  in  waiting  on  his  king  in  exile,  and 
in  lavishing  all  his  affection  on  "  Pen  "  and  the  hus- 
band he  had  once  so  cruelly  insulted.  Penelope's 
little  daughter  came  as  a  messenger  of  peace  to  the 
exiled  family. 

After  all,  was  not  the  prince  like  the  good  fairy 
in  a  story-book  ?  His  shoe-buckle  brought  great 
happiness  into  two  young  lives. 


CLARA  MULHOLLAND, 

Miss  Clara  Mulholland  is  a  daughter  of  the  late  Jo- 
seph Stevenson  Mulholland,  M.D.,  of  Belfast,  and  younger 
sister  of  Miss  Rosa  Mulholland  (Lady  Gilbert).  Miss  Mul- 
holland was  born  in  Belfast,  but  left  that  town  at  a  very  early 
age.  She  was  educated  in  Loughborough,  Leicestershire, 
England,  at  a  convent  of  the  Sisters  of  Providence  of  the 
Institute  of  Charity,  and  afterwards  at  a  convent  of  the 
Dames  de   Marie,  Coloma,  Belgium.      Her  first  story,  for 


young  children,  was  published  by  Messrs.  Marcus,  Ward  & 
Co.,  of  Belfast,  and  by  John  Murphy,  of  Baltimore.  Then 
followed  "  Naughty  Miss  Bunny,"  "  The  Strange  Adventures 
of  Little  Snowdrop,"  and  "  Little  Merry  Face  and  His  Crown 
of  Content."  Of  late,  Miss  Mulholland  has  written  stories 
for  various  London  magazines  and  papers,  and  for  Messrs. 
Tillotson  &  Sons,  of  Bolton,  and  the  National  Press  Agency, 
London.  Her  other  books  are  :  -'A  Striking  Contrast," 
"  Kathleen  Mavourneen,"  "  The  Miser  of  King's  Court," 
"  Percy's  Revenge  "  and  '  Linda's  Misfortunes." 


/IDave's  IRepentance, 

BY    CLARA    MULHOLLAND. 

She  had  always  been  the  belle  of  the  village.  At 
patterns  and  fairs,  at  wakes  and  dances,  Mave  was 
the  admiration  of  all.  She  was  tall  and  strong  for 
her  eighteen  years,  with  a  neat,  well-shaped  head 
crowned  with  a  coronet  of  nut-brown  hair;  a  skin 
like  the  inside  of  a  shell,  so  dainty  its  coloring;  and 
eyes  of  the  deepest  blue,  that  looked  black  in  the 
shadow  of  the  long  dark  lashes. 

Mave  McMahon  was  the  child  of  a  poor  fisher- 
man in  Innisboffin,  a  small  island  off  the  west 
coast  of  Ireland;  and  in  these  days  of  her  golden 
youth  worked  in  the  fields,  carried  baskets  of  sea- 
wrack  upon  her  head,  or  tended  her  father's  sheep 
as  they  browsed  upon  the  hill-side.  Mave  knew 
little  of  the  great  mainland  that  lay  beyond  the  sea. 
Her  whole  world  was  in  the  island  where  she  had 
been  born,  and  she  wished  for  nothing  more.  To 
live  and  die  there  was  the  beginning  and  end  of  her 
ambition.  For  there  was  her  home;  there  dwelt 
her  father  and  mother,  brothers  and  sisters.     And 

there,  with  his  widowed  mother,  in  a  little  cabin, 

225 


226  MAVE'S  REPENTANCE. 

about  a  mile  up  the  hill,  lived  her  aftianced  hus- 
band, Dermot  Kilfoyle. 

Dermot  was  a  big,  burly  fellow  of  twenty-five, 
whose  handsome  face,  browned  and  burnt  by  the 
sun  and  sea  air,  told  of  a  warm  heart  and  a  quick 
and  somewhat  jealous  temper.  For  years  he  had 
loved  pretty  Mave  with  an  adoring  love,  and  when 
at  last  she  consented  to  become  his  wife,  his  happi- 
ness was  great. 

"  Och!  begorrah  thin,  sure  it's  Dermot  that's  the 
fool  to  be  choosin'  the  likes  of  her,  wid  her  airs  and 
graces,"  said  the  old  woman,  with  a  wise  shake  of 
her  head,  as  she  talked  over  the  match  with  her 
cronies.  "  She'll  be  afther  leadin'  him  a  dance  and 
no  mistake." 

"  Thrue  for  you,"  cried  another.  "  But  sure, 
woman  alive,  the  lads  do  mostly  be  taken  wid  a 
purty  face  an'  a  pair  of  bright  eyes." 

"  Bedad  !  an'  that  same's  the  pity,  for  there's 
many's  a  dacint  girl  wid  a  plain  face  maybe,  but 
wid  a  heart  of  gold  an'  thinkin'  of  nothin'  but  doin' 
her  work  an'  sayin'  her  prayers  that  would " 

"  Aisy,  aisy — it's  not  many  you'll  find  for  him 
like  that.  An'  sure  if  you  did — a  hunderd  or  so — 
he'd  still  fix  his  eyes  on  Mave,  so  you  may  as  well 
give  over." 

"  Bad  manners  to  it,  sure  an'  I  must  ;  but  it's 
sorry  I  am  to  see  a  fine  man  like  Dermot  slootherin' 
round  a  girl  like  Mave,  till  he  doesn't  know  what 
he's  at." 


CLARA    MULHOLLAND.  22^ 

"  Och  !  well  sure  he's  the  dacint  lad  ;  an'  sure 
there  must  be  some  good  in  the  girl,  since  he  thinks 
such  a  hape  of  her." 

But  none  of  these  murmurs  reached  Dermot's 
ears;  and  if  they  had,  they  would  have  troubled 
him  little.  He  was  too  happy  in  his  new-found 
bhss. 

So  for  some  time  all  went  merrily.  Mave  was 
sweet  and  gentle  in  voice  and  manner — glad  to 
receive  her  lover,  and  sorry  to  see  him  go.  She 
was  steady  and  regular  at  her  work,  and  not  one  in 
the  island  had  a  word  to  say  against  her. 

"  Sure  there  isn't  wan  like  her  for  miles  round, 
the  crathur,"  Dermot  told  himself  continually. 
"  She's  the  jewel  of  a  girl  entirely,  an'  she'll  make 
me  the  happiest  man  ever  stepped,  plase  the  Lord." 

But  before  many  months  had  elapsed,  Dermot's 
peace  of  mind  was  disturbed,  his  soul  racked  and 
torn,  with  wild,  unconquerable  jealousy.  This  sud- 
den change  in  the  young  man's  feelings  was 
brought  about  in  the  following  manner. 

One  evening  at  a  dance,  when  Mave  in  her  neat 
red  petticoat,  and  blue  cotton  jacket,  a  soft  white 
neckerchief  folded  across  her  snowy  bosom,  her 
pretty  feet  in  their  stout  little  brogues  scarcely 
touching  the  floor  as  she  tripped  gracefully  up  the 
middle  and  down  again  in  time  to  the  music,  a 
stranger  appeared  suddenly  in  the  doorway  and 
stood  looking  in,  an  expression  of  interest  and 
amusement  in  his  handsome  eyes. 


228  MAFE'S  REPENTANCE. 

The  mistress  of  the  cabin,  one  Mrs.  McGurk, 
stepped  forward,  and  in  a  hospitable  manner  in- 
vited him  to  enter. 

"  My  name  is  Fane — Cecil  Fane,"  he  said,  fol- 
lowing her  into  the  kitchen.  "  And  I'm  staying 
with  Dr.  Sinclair." 

"  Sure  thin  you're  welcome  as  the  flowers  in 
May,"  she  said.  "  The  doctor's  a  rale  frind  to  us 
all." 

Then  leading  him  into  the  "  room,"  she  offered 
him  some  refreshment.  But  both  tea  and  whiskey 
he  politely  refused. 

"  ril  try  my  hand,  or  rather  my  feet,  at  a  jig 
presently,"  he  said,  as  he  looked  back  towards  the 
scene  of  merriment.  "  There's  a  lovely  girl  out 
there  I'd  like  to  ask  to  teach  me  how  to  dance  it. 
Will  you  kindly  present  me  to  her  ?  " 

"  It's  Mave  McMahon  you  mane  ?  "  she  said. 
"  Och  !  she'll  show  you  the  steps  finely." 

"  I'm  sure  she  will,"  he  answered,  smiling.  And 
the  next  moment  he  was  bowing  low  before  Mave, 
who,  hot  and  breathless  after  the  last  dance,  was 
standing  beside  Dermot,  her  hand  resting  on  his 
arm. 

The  girl  accepted  the  handsome  stranger's  in- 
vitation to  dance  with  shy  reluctance,  and  blushed 
deeply  as  he  led  her  away.  For  she  felt  nervous 
and  awkward,  knowing  full  well  that  every  eye  in 
the  place  was  fixed  upon  her  and  her  partner. 

But  Fane  soon  put  her  at  her  ease,  and  in  a  short 


CLARA    MULHOLLAND.  229 

time  she  was  laughing  merrily  at  his  energetic  at- 
tempts to  master  the  jig. 

Alave's  bright,  rustic  beauty,  her  sHm,  graceful 
figure,  and  unusual  coloring  delighted  young  Fane, 
and  he  took  no  pains  to  conceal  his  admiration. 

"  I'm  an  artist,"  he  told  her,  "  and  am  always  in 
search  of  a  pretty  face.  May  I  paint  you  ?  Just  a 
little  sketch  ?  " 

"  Sure  paint  me  if  you  plase,"  Mave  answered 
with  an  upward  glance  of  the  beautiful  eyes.  "  But 
you'll  have  to  do  me  widout  seein'  me,  for  sure  all 
day  I'm  out  mindin'  the  cattle  at  Torr's  Head, 
beyant." 

"  Capital  !  "  he  cried.  "  A  background  of  sea 
and  sky  is  just  what  I  want." 

"  'Deed  thin  you'll  niver  find  me,"  she  an- 
swered, in  a  tone  that  seemed  like  a  challenge. 
"  An'  there's  many  another  '11  do  just  as  well." 

"  Not  one.  And  I'll  find  you  never  fear,"  he 
said,  as,  pressing  her  hand  warmly,  he  bade  her 
good-night.  "  I'm  not  easily  daunted,  as  you'll 
see  by  and  by." 

And  find  her  he  did,  and  without  as  much  trouble 
as  he  had  expected.  So  easily  indeed,  that  he 
fancied  the  bashful  maiden  had  purposely  placed 
herself  in  an  unusually  prominent  position.  How- 
ever, he  did  not  mention  his  suspicions,  but,  rejoic- 
ing openly  at  his  good  luck  in  finding  her  so  soon, 
set  up  his  easel  and  canvas,  and  began  to  work. 

A  fortnight  passed.     And  as  Cecil  Fane  went 


/ 

230  MAVE'S  REPENTANCE. 

every  day  to  the  hill-side  and  sat  there,  painting  for 
several  hours,  the  picture  grew  apace. 

One  morning,  just  as  it  was  well-nigh  finished, 
the  young  man  did  not  appear,  and  Mave  wondered 
greatly. 

"  Sure,  I'm  hopin'  he  an'  Dermot  didn't  meet," 
she  thought  with  sudden  terror,  as  the  evening 
came  on.  "  Dermot  was  that  quare-tempered  last 
night  that — Patsey,"  to  the  boy  sent  by  her  father 
to  relieve  her,  and  now  seen  sauntering  slowly 
across  the  field,  "  will  you  step  out  a  bit,  you 
gosthoon,  an'  come  on — for  sure  I'm  in  a  mortial 
hurry." 

And  as  he  ran  shouting  after  a  straying  cow, 
she  started  ofif  at  a  brisk  pace  down  the  hill. 

About  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  she  came  sud- 
denly face  to  face  with  Cecil  Fane. 

"  Whither  so  fast,  sweet  Mave  ?  "  he  cried.  "  I 
was  just  going  to  look  for  you." 

"Oh!  sir — sure "  she  grew  rosy  red,  "I " 

"  You're  not  in  a  hurry  ?  Good.  Well,  then, 
since  you've  got  rid  of  your  cows,  and  I've  turned 
my  back  on  my  paints,  we'll  go  for  a  walk."  And 
he  led  the  way  towards  the  sea. 

Mave  followed  him  without  a  word.  Her  heart 
beat  quickly,  and  her  conscience  was  ill  at  ease. 
She  felt  she  was  doing  wrong,  knew  she  was 
wanted  at  home  for  many  reasons,  and  trembled  at 
the  thought  of  what  Dermot  might  do  or  say 
when  he  heard  of  her  conduct. 


CLARA    MULHOLLAND.  23 1 

"  But  there  can't  be  much  harm  in  goin',  an'  sure 
it  won't  be  for  long,"  she  thought.  "  An'  Der- 
mot's  not  me  master  yet," 

"  This  is  reahy  dehghtful,"  said  Fane,  Httle  sus- 
pecting what  a  battle  was  going  on  in  the  girl's 
mind.  "  It's  quite  a  new  sensation  to  walk  about 
with  you,  and  I  must  say  the  sea  air  agrees  with 
you.  It  has  given  you  a  wondrous  color.  How  I 
wish  I  could  paint  it.  But  it  is,  alas  !  beyond 
me." 

Mave  answered  nothing,  and  went  along  shyly, 
with  downcast  eyes,  wishing  she  had  courage  to 
go,  yet  too  much  fascinated  by  his  pleasant  ways 
and  the  sweet  softness  of  his  voice  and  language  to 
do  so.  He  told  her  endless  stories  of  the  gay  world 
from  whence  he  came  and  to  which  he  would  re- 
turn, and  assured  her  that  among  the  many  fair 
ladies  he  knew  there,  not  one  was  as  beautiful  as 
she,  Mave  looked  at  him  from  under  her  long 
lashes,  and  the  color  deepened  in  her  cheek.  She 
did  not  quite  believe  him  ;  but  being  a  woman, 
young  and  very  foolish,  she  was  pleased, 

"  And  yet,"  he  said,  smiling,  as  he  saw  how 
eagerly  she  listened  to  his  compliments,  "  except  as 
an  artist,  I  care  little  about  beauty — so  called.  The 
woman  I  love  and  hope  to  make  my  wife,  sweet 
Lena  Grey,  is  not  handsome,  but  lovely  and  lov- 
able, because  of  the  holiness  and  purity  that  look 
out  of  her  eyes." 

"  I'm  glad  you've   told   me,"   cried   Mave  im- 


/ 

232  MAVE'S  KEPENTANcA. 

pulsively.  "  God  bless  you  an'  her,  an'  give  you  all 
joy  an'  happiness." 

"  Thank  you;  and  I  hope  you  and  she  may  meet 
some  day." 

"  'Deed  an'  that  same's  not  Hkely." 

"  Who  knows  ?  And  I  tell  you  what,  Mave,  I'll 
bring  her  here  on  our  wedding  trip." 

"  Do,"  cried  Mave  gayly,  "  an'  sure  we'll  have  a 
dance  for  her  an'  you.     Now,  that's  a  bargain." 

"  Done,"  he  answered,  laughing;  and  raising  her 
hand,  he  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  "  Lena  will  be 
proud  and  pleased  to  know  you,  I  feel  sure." 

At  this  moment  Derniot  Kilfoyle  came  up  the 
path  from  the  beach,  carrying  a  basket  of  fish  upon 
his  back.  He  was  very  wet  and  tired.  He  had 
spent  a  long  day  on  a  tossing,  angry  sea,  and  was 
thinking  longingly  of  Mave  and  the  happy  walk 
they  would  take  together  in  the  moonlight. 

"  There'll  be  a  storm — a  bad  storm  before  niorn- 
in',"  he  said,  looking  towards  the  west,  where  the 
sun  was  slowly  sinking,  like  a  great  ball  of  fire,  into 
the  sea.  "  God  help  thim  that's  out  late  the  night. 
Mercy  on  us,  who's  thim  two  ?  "  he  cried,  as  his 
eyes  fell  upon  the  girl  and  her  companion.  "  Why 
if  it  isn't  Mave  an'  that  gomeral  of  an  artist  from 
England." 

Then  his  handsome  face  flushed  hotly,  as  Fane 
raised  her  hand  and  softly  kissed  it. 

"  How   dare   he  ?  "   he   muttered.      "  An'   sure 


CLARA    MULHOLLAND.  233 

Mave  must  have  taken  lave  of  her  sinses."  And, 
scowHng  angrily,  he  strode  forward. 

As  Mave  saw  him  approach,  she  blushed,  grew 
pale,  then  blushed  again. 

Fane  noticed  the  quick  change  of  color,  and 
glanced  from  her  to  Dermot,  then  back  at  her,  and 
laughed. 

"  Kilfoyle's  a  good-looking  fellow,  but  a  trifle 
rude,"  he  said.  "  Look  how  he  scowls  at  us.  One 
would  think  he  was  angry  to  see  us  together. 
He's  a  rough  specimen,  I  must  say." 

Mave  trembled  a  little.  It  annoyed  her  to  hear 
him  speak  so.  And  yet  was  he  not  right  ?  Der- 
mot did  look  rude,  and  very  uncouth,  in  his  coarse 
clothes,  his  basket  upon  his  back,  his  brows  knit 
together  in  a  frown. 

"  Mave,  come  home,"  he  said,  going  close  to  her 
side.  "  You  must  not  stay  here  talkin'  wid  this 
stranger." 

She  tossed  her  head  and  started  away  with  a 
look  of  scorn  and  annoyance. 

"  I'll  go  home  whin  I  plase.  Dermot  Kilfoyle," 
she  said  haughtily.  "  Go  your  ways  and  don't 
mind  me." 

Dermot  grew  white  to  the  lips.  He  glared  an- 
grily at  Cecil  Fane,  then,  shrugging  his  shoulders, 
laughed  a  bitter,  contemptuous  laugh. 

"  Bedad  I'll  go.  It's  not  me  that  would  come 
meddlin'  where  I'm  not  wanted.     But  you'll  be 


234  MAVE'S  REPENTANCE. 

afther  suppin'  sorra  wid  the  spoon  of  grief,  Mave 
McMahon,"  he  said  between  his  teeth,  "  or  my 
name's  not  Kilfoyle." 

Then  turning  away,  he  tramped  on  up  the  hill. 

As  he  disappeared,  Mave's  mood  suddenly 
changed,  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh,  don't,  don't  mind  him  !  "  cried  Fane,  sur- 
prised and  alarmed.  "  He's  an  insolent  fool, 
and " 

"  Arrah,  thin,  in  the  name  of  Heaven  say  nothin' 
agin  him,"  she  sobbed,  "  for  sure  I've  promised  to 
be  his  wife."  And  she  ran  past  him,  down  among 
the  rocks,  and  soon  vanished  out  of  sight. 

"  Poor  child  !  So  that's  the  way  the  wind 
blows.  Well,  I'm  sorry — very  sorry  for  you, 
and  bitterly  regret  having  roused  the  fellow's 
jealousy.  If  the  picture  were  but  finished,  I  would 
go.  And  he  would  soon  forgive  and  forget.  But, 
by  Jove  !  at  all  risks  I  must  have  another  sitting. 
Perhaps  I  might  find  her  on  the  beach  and  ask  her 
about  to-morrow."  And  humming  softly  to  him- 
self he  went  quickly  after  her. 

But  Mave  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"  Gone  home,  I  suppose,"  he  thought.  "Well, 
let's  hope  that  she  and  her  future  lord  and  master 
l-ipve  met  and  made  it  up.  By  Jove  !  I  hadn't  an 
ulea  of  such  a  thing  or  I'd  have  been  more  careful. 
I'll  give  it  to  Sinclair  for  not  telling  me.  See  if  I 
don't."  And  seating  himself  upon  a  big  stone,  he 
began  to  fill  his  pipe. 


CLARA    MULHOLLAND.  235 

Presently  he  saw  Mave  walking  towards  him 
along  the  beach,  Dermot  Kilfoyle  by  her  side.  He 
had  got  rid  of  his  creel  of  fish,  and  had  changed  his 
clothes,  but  his  temper  had  not  softened  appar- 
ently, for  he  was  talking  and  gesticulating  in  an 
angry,  excited  way. 

Mave's  face  was  flushed  and  proudly  sullen. 
Her  bosom  rose  and  fell  quickly,  and  she  seemed  to 
suffer  intense  emotion.  But  she  held  her  head 
high,  and  kept  it  turned  resolutely  away  from  her 
lover. 

"  Come,"  cried  Kilfoyle,  as  they  paused  in  front 
of  Fane  without  noticing  him,  "  promise  niver 
to  speak  to  that  man  agin,  and  I'll  forgive  you." 

"  'Deed  thin  I'll  promise  no  such  thing.  I'll 
spake  to  any  wan  I  plase — an'  Mr.  Fane's  a  gintle- 
man,  who " 

"  A  gintleman,  aye,"  Dermot  laughed  bitterly, 
"  who  mocks  an'  makes  game  of  you " 

The  girl  turned  upon  him  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  How  dare  you  spake  so  !  He  only  says  kind 
an'  pleasant  things  an' " 

He  caught  her  arm  in  a  grasp  like  a  vice. 

"  An'  you — you  listen  to  him — smile  on  him — 
you " 

"  I'll  listen  to  him,  an'  to  any  wan  I  plase,"  she 
cried,  wrenching  herself  free.  "  I'm  not  your  wife 
to " 

"  No;  nor  niver  will  be.  I've  done  wid  you, 
Mave  McMahon.     So  you  may  talk  an'  walk  wid 


/ 

236  MAVE'S  REPENTANCE. 

him  till  Doomsday."  And  he  strode  away  from 
her  side,  his  brain  whirling,  his  heart  filled  with 
bitterness  and  anger. 

Mave  stood  where  he  had  left  her,  staring  out  at 
the  great  foaming  waves.  Her  blue  eyes  had  an 
angry  light  in  them,  while  her  rosy  lips  were 
pressed  tightly  together  with  a  look  of  hard,  un- 
compromising determination. 

"He'll  come  back,"  she  muttered,  "  an'  be  sorry 
for  his  words.  But  sure  he'll  have  to  be  mighty 
humble  entirely,  or  I'll  niver  give  in."  Then,  turn- 
ing suddenly,  she  saw  Cecil  Fane  seated  upon  a 
rock  close  by. 

"  Mave,"  he  said,  going  forward  to-  meet  her, 
"  I'm  sorry  that  my  friendship  should  have  caused 
you  such  trouble.  But  the  picture  will  soon  be 
finished,  and  then  I'll  leave  this  forever.  One 
more  sitting  will " 

"  I  can't  give  it,  sir."  Mave  had  grown  very 
white.  "  I  daren't  vex  him  more.  I'm  sorry,  for 
sure " 

"  Not  give  it  ?  But  think,"  he  caught  her  hand, 
"  what  it  means  to  me." 

"  It  manes  more  to  me  sure.     But " 

"  You'll  come  ?  On  the  hill-side  again  to-mor- 
row.    Good " 

At  this  moment  a  boy  came  running  along  the 
beach  carrying  a  telegram. 

"  Mr.  Fane,  sir,  this  came  by  the  packet  just 
now." 


CLARA    MULHOLLAND.  237 

"  For  me  ?  "  Fane  tore  open  the  envelope,  and 
as  he  read  the  message  his  face  blanched,  and,  in 
a  voice  full  of  emotion,  he  cried  aloud: 

"  Lena  ill — in  danger.  My  God  !  Then  I  must 
leave  this  to-night.  When  does  the  packet  sail  ?  " 
he  asked,  turning  to  the  messenger. 

"  Sure,  it  won't  go  till  mornin'." 

"  Then  I  must  go  in  a  boat." 

"  Begorrah,  thin,  you'll  get  no  boat  to  take  you 
across  the  night.  It's  too  stormy  ;  an'  sure  any 
man  can  see  that  it's  gettin'  worse  it  is." 

"  I  must  leave  the  island  as  soon  as  possible. 
Who'd  be  most  likely  to  take  me  across  ?  " 

"  I  will."  Dermot  Kilfoyle  stepped  up  to  him, 
with  a  white,  set  face.  "  I've  a  boat  that  'd  sail  in 
any  say,  an'  the  wind  '11  be  wid  us,"  he  cried.  "  So 
come  on,  an'  lose  no  time.  Not  that  I  wouldn't 
brave  any  storm  to  get  shut  of  you." 

A  cry  of  anguish  escaped  from  Mave. 

"  No,  Dermot."  She  clasped  her  hands  round 
his  arm.  "  Look  at  the  say.  There's  a  storm 
comin'." 

But  he  fiung  her  from  him.  "  It's  frettin'  you 
are  to  see  him  go,"  he  sneered.  "  You'll  be  lone- 
some the  morra " 

"  No,  no,  Dermot,  but  vou " 


"  Don't  consarn  yourself  about  me.  There's 
not  many  wantin'  me — an'  I  might  as  well  go  to 
the  bottom  as  not.  Come  on,  Misther  Fane  ;  the 
sooner  we  go — the  sooner  we'll  get  it  over."     And 


/ 

238  MAVE'S  /REPENTANCE. 

casting  a  glance  of  withering  scorn  and  defiance  at 
the  trembHng  girl,  he  took  Fane's  arm  and  dragged 
him  away. 

"  My  God  !  an'  I,"  she  shuddered,  "  have  done 
this.  Driven  him — to  danger — maybe  to  death. 
For  there's  nothin'  will  gainsay  him  now,  nothin' 
'11  turn  him  back — an'  the  storm  is  comin'  up — the 
say  just  frightenin'." 

She  pushed  back  the  hair  from  her  brow,  and  a 
low,  deep  moan  escaped  her  lips.  Then,  scarcely 
knowing  where  she  went,  she  began  to  grope  her 
way  among  the  rocks.  But  she  made  but  little 
progress,  as  every  moment  she  turned  and  looked 
out  wildly  over  the  ocean. 

The  evening  had  now  closed  in  ;  the  rain  that 
had  been  threatening  all  day  came  down  in  tor- 
rents, and  a  thick  mist  soon  enveloped  both  sea  and 
land.  Blindly  Mave  staggered  along,  her  heart 
full  of  anguish,  her  soul  torn  with  remorse.  The 
wind  howled  and  shrieked  as  though  in  mockery  of 
her  grief,  and  huge  waves  dashed  violently  against 
the  rocks,  drenching  her  with  their  spray, 

"  Merciful  God,  have  pity,"  she  moaned,  "  save 
thim.  Holy  Mary,  Star  of  the  Say,  pray  for  thim. 
I'm  sorry  an'  repint  bitterly  of  my  pride  an' 
wickedness  that  druv  poor  Dermot  out  the  night. 
Ochone  !  "  she  gave  a  cry  of  terror  as  through  the 
drifting  rain  and  heavy  mist  she  saw  a  light,  now 
rising  upon  the  crest  of  the  wave,  now  engulfed 
and  hidden  from  sight.     That  light  she  knew  was 


CLARA    MULHOLLAND.  2ig 

ill  a  boat,  and  in  that  boat  were  the  two  men,  Der- 
mot  Kilfoyle  and  Cecil  Fane. 

"  The  Lord  save  an'  dehver  thim,"  she  gasped. 
"  Sure  they're  lost.  No  boat  could  live  in  such  a 
say,  an'  I — God  forgive  me — I  druv  thim  out  to 
death  to-night.  O  Dermot,  Dermot,  if  I  was 
only  by  your  side  !  "  Then,  white  and  haggard,  she 
struggled  up  over  the  rocks,  and  staggered  away 
along  the  dark,  wet  road  to  her  father's  cabin. 

All  through  the  long  hours  of  the  night  ]\Iave 
lay  tossing  from  side  to  side,  in  open-eyed  misery. 

"  Maybe  the  mornin'  will  bring  hope,"  she  mur- 
mured, as  the  storm  abated.  "  An'  sure  good 
news  may  come  wid  the  dawn."  And  at  last, 
weary  and  exhausted,  she  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep. 

But  the  next  day  passed,  and  when  evening  came 
on,  no  word  from  Dermot  or  Fane  had  reached 
their  friends  on  the  island. 

'    "  They're  gone  fur  sure,"  said  one  old  fisherman, 
in  husky  tones.     "  We'll  niver  see  thim  more." 

And  when  the  news  was  spread  abroad,  that  the 
outgoing  packet,  that  morning,  had  seen  a  boat 
bottom  upwards,  floating  out  to  sea,  all  agreed  that 
he  was  right.  There  could  no  longer  be  any  doubt 
as  to  what  their  end  had  been. 

To  describe  Mave's  sorrow,  her  heart-broken 
remorse,  and  bitter  self-reproach  would  be  impos- 
sible. No  one  guessed  one-half  of  what  she  suf- 
fered. She  did  not  fall  ill,  or  give  way  to  violent 
grief,  but  went  about  in  a  half-dazed  condition, 


240  MAVE'S  /REPENTANCE. 

dry-eyed  and  silent,  the  soft  bloom  in  her  cheeks 
slowly  fading,  the  lines  round  her  sweet  mouth 
gradually  hardening. 

One  rainy  day,  chance  took  her  past  the  little 
cabin  where  Dermot  Kilfoyle  had  lived  with  his 
mother.  Through  the  open  door  she  saw  the  old 
woman  sitting  alone,  her  hands  clasped  together 
as  though  in  prayer. 

With  a  sudden  stab  at  her  heart  she  paused  and 
looked  in.  Then  remembering  that  she  had  caused 
this  sorrow,  she  ran  up  to  her,  and  threw  her  arms 
round  her  neck. 

"  It's  desolit  you  look,  Mrs.  Kilfoyle,"  she  cried, 
bursting  into  tears,  "  rale  desolit." 

"  Aye,  my  dear,  for  sure  Dermot's  gone  from 
me.  But  it's  God's  will,  alanna.  An'  we  must  all 
bow  to  that.  I  loved  my  boy — maybe  too  well. 
An'  the  Lord  took  him.  It's  hard,  sore  hard.  But 
God  knows  best.  An'  we  must  pray  for  his  sowl, 
Mave.     You  don't  forget  that  ?  " 

"  No.  But  can  you  forgive  me  ?  Sure  'twas  I, 
druv  him  from  you,  in  my  pride  an'  vanity  I " 

"  Whisht,  alanna, — an'  don't  be  frettin'  too  much 
about  that.  There  was,  I've  no  manner  of  doubt, 
faults  on  both  sides.  Dermot  had  always  a  mis- 
fortunit  temper,  poor  lad."  Tears  rolled  down  her 
wrinkled  cheeks.  "  But  sure,  if  he's  dhrownded 
the  Lord  will  forgive  you  because  of  your  great 
sorrow;  'twas  for  sinners  He  died,  Mave.  An'  He'll 
have  mercy  on  Dermot,  for  he  was  a  good  son." 


CLARA    MULHOLLAND.  24 1 

"  God  love  you,"  whispered  Mave.  "  You've 
put  hope  into  my  heart.  But  till  the  day  of  my 
death  I'll  niver  forgive  myself.  Only  for  me  he'd 
niver  have  gone  to  say  that  night." 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  sighed  the  mother.  "  He  was 
always  darin'  an'  thought  greatly  of  his  boat.  She 
was  the  fine  sailer.  An'  thin  when  Misther  Fane — 
Och,  'tw^as  the  black  day  brought  him  among  us." 

"  He  was  no  ways  to  blame,"  cried  Mave,  blush- 
ing. "  An'  sure  there'll  be  many  frettin'  sore  for 
him." 

"  Musha,  thin,  thrue  for  you.  He'd  a  mother, 
too,  may  be  ?  " 

"  Yes.  An'  some  one  who  loved  him  dear.  He 
was  thinkin'  of  marryin'  soon,  an'  now " 

"  God  comfort  thim  an'  us,"  said  the  old  woman 
solemnly.  "  At  such  a  time  He  is  our  only  refuge. 
His  holy  will  be  done." 

"  Amen,"  sobbed  Mave.  "  But  sure  it's  desolit 
we  all  are  entirely." 

And  then  they  sat,  with  clasped  hands,  silently 
weeping. 

From  that  hour  Mave  spent  every  spare  moment 
of  the  day  and  night  with  the  lonely  woman.  Her 
holy  submission  to  the  Divine  Will,  her  gentle  and 
tender  way  of  speaking,  touched  the  girl  and 
soothed  her  breaking  heart.  Constant  inter- 
course with  her,  showing  as  it  did  how  terrible 
the  loss  of  her  son  had  been  to  her,  deepened, 
if    possible,     Mave's     feeling    of    remorse,     and 


242  MAVE'S   REPENTANCE. 

blaming  herself  for  having  caused  her  so  much 
sorrow,  she  did  all  she  could  to  console  and  com- 
fort her.  Such  sweet  sympathy  and  devotion  were 
very  dear  to  ]\Irs.  Kilfoyle,  and  before  long  they 
became  like  mother  and  daughter. 

It  was  a  wild  autumn  that  year,  and  a  wilder 
winter.  Terrible  storms  raged  continually,  and 
owing  to  the  almost  impassable  state  of  the  sea 
there  was  but  little  coming  and  going  between  the 
island  and  the  mainland. 

"  It's  not  much  we  know  of  what's  passin'  in  the 
world,"  remarked  Mave  one  day,  as  she  and  Mrs. 
Kilfoyle  sat  knitting  by  the  fire.  "  What  wid  the 
desperate  wind  an'  Docther  Sinclair  bein'  away,  it's 
lost  we  are  for  news." 

"  Musha,  thin,  an'  what  news  would  you  be 
wantin',  honey  ?  " 

"  Sure  I'd  like  to  know  how  that  poor  girl 
Misther  Fane  loved  is  gettin'  on.  Lena  Grey  he 
called  her.  The  telegram  said  she  was  ill.  I 
wondher  did  she  die." 

"  When  the  docther  comes  back,  an'  sure  that 
same  won't  be  long,  he'll  be  able  to  tell  you,  may 
be.  He  was  the  only  one  knew  anything  of 
Misther  Fane  an'  his  people." 

A  tall,  broad-shouldered  man  stood  in  the  door- 
way, and  they  rose  to  their  feet,  in  a  flutter  of  sur- 
prise and  pleasure,  as  they  recognized  Dr.  Sinclair. 
"  Well,  Mrs.  Kilfoyle,  I  hope  I  see  you  well,"  he 
cried  in  a  cheery  voice.     "  And  Mave  McMahon, 


CLARA    MULHOLLAND.  243 

too — but  looking  white  and  thin.  We  must  bring 
the  roses  back  to  your  cheeks,  my  girl."  And  he 
laid  his  hand  caressingly  upon  her  shoulder. 

Mave  grew  crimson,  and  tears  rushed  to  her 
eyes. 

"  You're  nervous,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  with 
kindly  interest,  "  and  run  down.      We  must  take 

care  of  you  and  strengthen  you  before "     He 

paused  abruptly,  and  seating  himself  in  front  of 
Mrs.  Kilfoyle,  crossed  one  leg  slowly  over  the 
other,  saying:  "  You've  never  asked  me  about  my 
visit  to  England,  or  any  of  the  things  I've  seen  or 
heard." 

*'  Och,  no,  Docther  dear,  but  sure  you  must  have 
seen  hapes  of  wonderful  things." 

"  Yes,"  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff.  "  And  the  last 
and  most  wonderful  thing — was  a  wedding." 

"  A  wedding  !  "  the  old  woman  laughed. 
"  Arrah,  sure  they're  common  enough — over  there 
especially." 

"  Yes,  so  they  are.  But  this  one  was  peculiar 
— peculiar  in  this  way.  The  bride  and  the  bride- 
groom were  both  on  the  point  of  death — or  at 
least,  in  danger  of  death  some  four  months  ago. 
The  bride  through  a  fall  from  her  horse;  the  bride- 
groom through  the  upsetting  of  a  boat  on  a  tem- 
pestuous sea,  not  very  far  from  the  island  of  Innis- 
bofBn.  He  was  found  clinging  to  the  boat,  and 
rescued  by  a  passing  vessel  bound  for  America. 
He  was  safely  landed  at  the  first  port;  but  there  he 


244  MAVE'S  REPENTANCE. 

fell  ill.  For  some  time  his  life  hung  in  the  balance, 
and  he'd  probably  have  died  unknown  and  among 
strangers,  had  it  not  been  for  a  good,  devoted  fel- 
low, an  Irishman,  who  tended  and  nursed  him  with 
infinite  devotion.  But  thanks  to  him,  his  youth, 
and  a  good  constitution,  he  recovered,  after  some 
time  reached  home,  and  was  last  week  married  to 
sweet  Lena  Grey." 

"  Docther  " — Mave  started  forward  with  quiver- 
ing lips  and  heaving  bosom — "  sure  it  must  be 
about  Misther  Fane  you're  telhn'  us.  If  he  was 
saved — what — became  of  Dermot  ?  " 

"  My  dear  child,  they  were  together.  Both 
clung  to  the  boat  ;  both  were  saved  ;  Dermot  it 
was  who  nursed  and  took  care  of  poor  Fane. 
Dermot  is  alive  and  well." 

"  My  God  !  "  The  old  woman  threw  her  arms 
above  her  head.  "  Blessed  be  Thy  holy  name  for- 
ever," she  cried  in  a  loud  voice;  then  fell  back  sob- 
bing upon  her  seat. 

For  an  instant  a  look  of  intense  joy  lit  up  Mave's 
beautiful  face,  but  it  passed  quickly  away,  and  she 
grew  suddenly  pale  as  death. 

"  Dermot  saved — Dermot  alive  and  well,"  she 
moaned  in  a  voice  of  anguish.  "  Oh  !  can  it  be — 
can  it  be  true  ?  I  have  grieved — his  mother  has 
shed  bitter  tears  thinkin'  him  dead,  an'  he  has  left 
us  widout  a  word.  Och  !  it  was  cruel — downright 
cruel  of  him." 

"  'Deed  an'  he  might  have  been  afther  sendin'  us 


CLARA    MULHOLLAND.  245 

a  bit  of  a  letter,  just  to  let  us  know  he  wasn't  lyin' 
dhrownded  dead,"  cried  the  old  woman.     "  But 

sure  there's  many  mishaps  wid  the  post  an' " 

"  That's  just  it,"  said  Dr.  Sinclair.  "  Dermot 
assured  me  he  had  written  many  letters,  telling 
you  that  he  was  alive,  and  asking  Mave's  forgive- 
ness— saying  he  knew  the  truth  about  Mr.  Fane, 
who  was  now  his  best  friend,  and  that  he  loved  her 
more  than  ever,  and  only  waited  till  she  sent  him 
a  line  to  allow  him  to  come  home." 

"  Sure  no  letter  iver  came  to  us,"  said  Mave, 
with  quivering  lips. 

"  Well,  Dermot  is  not  much  of  a  scholar,  and 
dear  knows  what  sort  of  addresses  he  put  on  those 
letters  of  his.  But  you  see,  after  all,  it  was  not  his 
fault  that  you  did  not  know  that  he  was  living  and 
well.  So  don't  be  too  hard,  Mave.  The  poor  fel- 
low has  suffered  terribly.  For,  not  getting  any  an- 
swer from  you,  he  thought  you  had  ceased  to  care 
for  him,  and  was  very  miserable." 

"  How  could  he  think  so  ?  "  cried  Mave,  now 
rosy  red.  "  Sure  he  knows  nothin'  on  airth  could 
iver  change  me." 

"  That's  right,"  cried  the  doctor,  beaming  with 
delight,  as  he  got  up,  and  walking  over  to  the  door 
opened  it  wide.  "  And  if  I  were  you,"  standing 
upon  the  step,  "  I'd  tell  that  without  delay  to  Der- 
mot Kilfoyle  himself." 

"Oh  !  "  she  said  with  a  smile  and  sigh,  "  sure  if  I 
got  the  chanst  I  wouldn't  be  long  doin'  that  same." 


/ 

/ 

246  MAVE'S  REPENTANCE. 

"  And  if  he  came  to  you — just  walked  in — you'd 
welcome  and  be  pleased  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  the  beautiful  eyes  filHng  up  with  tears, 
"  I'd  welcome  him  from  the  bottom  of  me  heart. 
Let  him  only  come,  docther,  an'  thry." 

"  Do  you  mane  that,  Mave,  asthore  ?  "  asked  a 
voice  that  sent  the  blood  coursing  quickly  through 
her  veins,  and  made  her  heart  beat  joyfully.  "  Oh  ! 
me  jewel  of  a  girl,  put  your  hand  in  mine,  an'  say 
you  love  an'  forgive  me." 

"  'Deed  thin  I  do,  Dermot,"  she  cried,  raising  a 
radiantly  happy  face  to  his,  as  she  clasped  his 
hand  and  drew  him  into  the  cabin.  "  I  both  love 
you  an'  forgive  you.  An'  sure  there's  some  one 
else  in  here  longin'  to  do  the  same." 

And  the  next  moment  Dermot  was  sobbing  like 
a  child  upon  his  mother's  breast. 


ROSA  MULHOLLAND. 


Rosa  Mulholland  was  born  in  Belfast,  Ireland,  and  is 
the  second  daughter  of  the  late  Joseph  Stevenson  Mulhol- 
land, M.D.,  of  Belfast,  and  Maria,  his  wife.  Mr.  William 
Mulholland,  Queen's  Counsel,  London,  Bencher  of  Lin- 
coln's Inn,  is  her  brother,  and  her  elder  sister  is  Lady  Rus- 
sell of  Killowen,  wife  of  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  England. 
Miss  Clara  Mulholland,  author  of  many  charming  stories,  is 
her  younger  sister.  In  1891  Rosa  Mulholland  married 
Mr.,  now  Sir,  John  T.  Gilbert,  author  of  the  well-known 
"  History  of  Dublin"  and  other  standard  works  relating  to 
Ireland,  based  on  researches  among  unpublished  MSS. 

The  principal  works  of  Rosa  Mulholland  (Lady  Gilbert) 
are  as  follows : 


•'The  Wild  Birds  of  Killeevy,"  "  Marcella  Grace,"  "  A 
Fair  Emigrant,"  '•  Dunmora,"  "  Hester's  History,"  "  The 
Wicked  Woods,"  "The  Squire's  Granddaughters,"  "The 
Late  Miss  Hollingford,"  "  Banshee  Castle,"  "  Giannetta," 
"  Hetty  Gray,"  "  Four  Little  Mischiefs,"  "  Five  Little 
Farmers,"  "Puck  and  Blossom,"  "The  Little  Flower- 
Seekers,"  "  The  Walking  Trees  and  Other  Tales,"  "  Eider- 
gowan  and  Other  Stories,"  "  The  Haunted  Organist  of 
Hurly  Burly  and  Other  Stories,"  "  Marigold  and  Other 
Stories,"  "  Our  Own  Story  and  Other  Tales,"  "  Vagrant 
Verses,"  "  Holy  Childhood,"  "  The  Story  of  Jesus  Simply 
Told  for  the  Young,"  "The  First  Christmas  of  Our  Dear 
Little  Ones,"  and  "  Spiritual  Counsels  for  the  Young," 


Granny  6roaan. 

BY    ROSA    MULHOLLAND    GILBERT. 

Ballybatter  is  a  small  town  a  few  miles  from 
Dublin  city,  countryward,  to  the  sea.  It  has  one 
street  with  good  shops,  and  it  has  slums,  in  which 
dwell,  chiefly,  laborers  and  their  families,  a  few  old 
pensioners,  a  good  many  widows  and  spinsters, 
who  make  a  great  "  debate  "  for  life  by  means  of 
some  ill-rewarded  industry,  and  a  certain  number  of 
idlers  who  prefer  to  loaf,  and  make  out  existence 
nobody  knows  how.  Nearly  all  the  women  of  Bal- 
lybatter take  in  "  a  bit  of  washing."  Granny  Gro- 
gan's  house  was  at  the  very  end  of  Sweeny's  Court, 
and  placed  so  that  from  the  one  kitchen  of  which 
the  "  house  "  consisted  a  view  was  obtained  of  the 
entire  row  of  dwellings  and  the  stony  pavement  in 
front  of  them.  The  granny,  who  was  seventy-five 
years  old  and  bedridden,  could  see  from  her  bed  all 
that  went  on  in  the  Court  during  the  day.  The 
pump,  which  is  its  central  object,  was  within  the 
range  of  her  vision.  Nobody  could  take  a  can 
of  water  from  it  without  her  knowledge,  and  when 
Judy  Flynn,  the  most  dissipated  member  of  her 
sex  in  the  whole  of  Ballybatter,  was  "  afther  havin' 
dhrink  taken  "  and  come  to  sober  herself  by  pump- 

249 


250  GRANNY  GROGAN. 

ing  a  shower-bath  on  her  own  head,  Granny  Gro- 
gan  was  the  first,  and  sometimes  the  only,  person 
to  be  scandahzed  at  her  proceedings.  She  watched 
the  small  children  at  their  play  of  making  dirt- 
pies  in  the  gutter,  and  measured  time  by  the  re- 
turn of  "  laboring  boys  "  to  their  dinner  and  the 
ringing  of  the  Angelus  bell  from  the  chapel  only 
a  hundred  perches  away,  with  its  back  door  open 
to  the  slums,  and  its  front  entrance  facing  the  high- 
road where  the  quality  "  do  be  dhrivin'  "  through 
Ballybatter  on  their  way  to  the  sea. 

The  granny  was  a  small  woman,  shrivelled  into 
half  her  original  size  by  the  rheumatism,  which  had 
twisted  her  poor  hands  till  they  looked  like  the 
gathered-up  claws  of  a  dead  bird.  She  could 
neither  sit  up  properly  nor  lie  down,  and  crouched 
in  her  bed  with  her  head  leaning  forward  and  her 
chin  almost  touching  her  breast.  She  had  lived 
in  this  earthen-floored,  damp  kitchen  for  many 
years,  and  had  done  her  laundry  work  in  it  so  well 
that  she  was  known  as  the  best  washerwoman  in 
Ballybatter.  She  had  been  married  to  her  second 
husband  and  taken  him  to  burial  from  under  this 
roof.  Her  two  sons  had  walked  out  of  the  place  to 
enlist,  and  she  had  shed  her  tears  in  it  over  the  let- 
ter that  informed  her  of  their  death.  Here  she  still 
remained,  now  that  she  was  alone  and  helpless,  her 
rent  paid  by  a  former  patron,  and  her  needs  sup- 
plied from  day  to  day  by  the  occasional  doles  of  the 
charitable,  and  the  self-denying  kindness  of  the 


EOSA    MULHOLLAND    GILBERT.  2$  I 

neighbors  in  the  Court.  "  Run  in  an'  light  the 
granny's  fire,"  a  harassed  mother  of  ten  would  say 
to  her  little  girl  in  the  morning,  and  another  would 
pour  off  the  first  cup  of  tea  from  the  cracked  tea- 
pot on  the  hob,  and  cari-y  it  to  her,  saying,  "  The 
heart  of  her  would  be  dyin'  within  her,  the  cra- 
ture,  afther  the  night  she  does  have,  an'  her  neither 
lyin',  nor  sittin',  nor  even  standin'  up  itself  !  "  Ru- 
mors that  Granny  Grogan  would  be  whizzed  off  to 
the  House  (poorhouse)  were  sometimes  afloat,  but 
they  were  always  hushed  up,  and  she  held  her  place 
from  year  to  year,  while  it  was  admitted  that  "  the 
Court  would  be  quare  and  lonesome  if  so  be  the 
like  of  her  was  ever  to  be  took  out  of  it." 

However,  one  summer  when  the  times  were  par- 
ticularly hard,  and  two  or  three  other  old  people 
had  disappeared  into  the  Union  Hospital,  a  feeling 
grew  among  the  more  discontented  of  the  slums 
population  that  there  was  no  reason  why  Granny 
Grogan  should  be  supported  among  the  neighbors 
when  their  children  wanted  bread.  The  old  crea- 
ture herself  heard  the  whisper  and  trembled;  but 
still  the  weeks  passed  on  and  nothing  was  done. 
The  death  of  the  patron  who  had  paid  her  rent  in- 
tensified matters,  and  the  landlord's  grumbling, 
growing  louder  as  the  defaulting  eighteenpences 
became  more  and  more  conspicuous  in  his  monthly 
accounts,  seemed  to  herald  the  dreaded  winding- 
up  of  Mrs.  Grogan's  career  in  Sweeny's  Court. 

"  I'm  feared  it'll  have  to  be  the  end  of  it,"  said 


252  GRANNY  GROGAN.        ' 

Mrs.  Mooney,  as  she  hung  her  bit  of  washing  on 
the  long  Hne  across  the  Court.  She  was  talking  to 
Mrs.  Nolan,  who  was  scraping  her  stirabout  pot 
on  the  stones,  stopping  to  hit  a  couple  of  hens  on 
their  heads  with  her  iron  spoon  as  they  dashed  at 
the  scrapings,  intended  for  them,  with  their  too- 
eager  bills. 

"  God  help  her  !  "  said  Mrs.  Nolan,  "  it's  a  pity 
the  Lord  wouldn't  take  her,  and  her  so  ready  to  go. 
Sure  heaven  'd  be  a  grand  change  for  her  afther 
Sweeny's  Court." 

"  Cock  her  up  with  heaven  all  in  a  hurry  !  "  said 
Mrs,  Mooney.  "  Isn't  purgatory  itself  a  crowned 
king  to  the  Union  ?  " 

"  Take  the  mug,  Katie,"  said  Mrs.  Nolan  to  the 
little  curly-haired  child  standing  by  her,  "  and  run 
an'  see  if  the  new  American  milk-woman  will  give 
a  sup  of  milk  out  of  her  can  for  the  poor  ould  wom- 
an that  lives  among  the  neighbors.  I  hear  she's 
a  plentiful  kind  of  a  woman,  an'  I  see  her  cart- 
wheel standin'  there  at  the  foot  o'  the  lane." 

The  little  girl  was  beside  the  milk-cart  by  the 
time  its  owner  had  got  down  from  her  perch. 

"  Will  you  give  a  sup  o'  milk  for  Granny 
Grogan,  ma'am  ?  "  begged  the  little  one  with  up- 
lifted blue  eyes  and  outstretched  mug. 

"  Where's  your  money  ?  "  demanded  the  milk- 
woman  curtly. 

"  Granny  Grogan  has  no  money,"  Hsped  Katie, 
undaunted. 


KOSA    MULHOLLAND    GILBERT.  253 

"  Och,  sure  it's  the  granny  that  lives  among  the 
neighbors,"  said  a  bystander.  "  Everybody  gives 
her  a  bite  and  a  sup." 

"  That'll  soon  all  be  over  with  her  when  she's 
took  to  the  Union." 

"  Then  I'm  sorry  if  it's  comin'  to  that  with  her." 

The  words  flew  about  the  American  woman's 
ears,  while  Katie  stood  before  her  all  the  time  star- 
ing and  persistent.  When  she  had  finished  her 
business  in  the  retail  milk-shop  which  she  had 
come  to  supply,  she  turned  to  the  child. 

"  Now,  where  is  your  Granny  Grogan  ?  "  she 
said  abruptly. 

*'  This  way,  ma'am,"  cried  Katie,  and  the  stran- 
ger trudged  down  the  court  after  her  with  her 
clanking  milk-cans. 

Mary  Mallon  was  a  buxom  woman  with  eyes  of 
a  warm  brown,  and  with  a  strong  mouth.  She 
looked  like  a  person  who  would  begin  big  things 
on  impulse  and  carry  them  through  with  determi- 
nation. A  large  white  apron  almost  covered  her, 
and  her  plaid  shawl  and  black  bonnet  were  put  on 
with  care.  As  she  passed  down  the  court  Granny's 
neighbors  came  to  their  doors  and  said:  "That's 
the  woman  that  came  home  from  America  with 
money,  and  has  bought  '  Bawneen  '  and  set  up 
cows.  It's  good  to  go  to  America  a  young  one, 
and  come  back  rich  afore  you're  altogether  too 
ould  for  anything." 

Mrs.  Mallon  had  walked  to  the  top  of  the  Court, 


254  GRANNY  GROG  AN. 

and  stood  in  the  doorway  of  Granny  Grogan's  kit- 
chen, looking  in.  She  saw  the  httle  aged  cripple 
crouched  in  her  bed,  with  her  shoulder  against  the 
damp  wall.  The  bed,  which  was  set  up  on  a  kind 
of  box  with  legs,  was  clean,  and  a  number  of  more 
or  less  ragged  and  smoked  religious  prints  dis- 
puted place  with  the  spots  of  damp  on  the  white- 
wash, or  rather  graywash,  making  an  aureole  of 
saints  in  red  and  yellow  round  the  old  woman's 
head.  Mrs.  Grogan's  cap  was  clean,  so  was  the 
white  shawl  pinned  around  her  shoulders.  There 
was  a  little  spot  of  pink  in  her  poor  old  cheeks,  and 
the  twinkling  eyes  that  turned  towards  the  door 
were  as  blue  and  as  bright  as  a  baby's.  Mrs.  Mal- 
lon  stood  still  and  looked  at  her  steadily  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  advanced  into  the  house  and 
deposited  her  cans  with  a  clank  on  the  earthen  floor. 

"  Haven't  ye  anything  bigger  than  this  ?  "  said 
the  milk-woman  to  the  little  girl  who  was  pushing 
the  mug  into  her  hands. 

"  God  bless  ye,  woman  !  "  said  Mrs.  Nolan,  who, 
with  Mrs.  Mooney,  had  left  her  own  business  to 
follow  the  stranger.  "  Katie,  run  in  for  the  jug, 
an'  be  quick  with  ye  !  " 

Mrs.  Mallon  turned  and  faced  the  two  observant 
matrons. 

"She's  so  like  my  own  gran'mother,"  she  said, 
and  turned  again  for  another  long,  mild  stare  at 
Granny  Grogan. 

"  That's  a  good  while  back,"  said  Mrs.  Mooney, 


ROSA    MULHOLLAND    GILBERT.  255 

with  eyes  that  guessed  the  probable  age  of  the 
American. 

"  She  died  when  I  was  ten  years  old,  an'  that's 
not  yesterday,  neither,"  said  Mrs.  Mallon.  "  Forty 
years  ago  it  is,  come  Pathrick's  mornin'." 

"  You've  the  best  of  a  good  mimbery,"  said  Mrs. 
Nolan  admiringly. 

Mrs.  Mallon  took  the  jug  from  the  returning 
Katie  and  filled  it  to  overflowing. 

*'  There's  more  where  that  came  from,"  she  said 
gently,  depositing  it  on  the  rickety  table  by  the  old 
woman's  side. 

"  May  God's  blessin'  be  about  you  ! "  said 
Granny  Grogan.  "  It's  Him  that  has  always  got 
somethin'  unexpected  to  dhrop  into  the  open 
hand  !  " 

"  It's  my  gran'mother's  voice  she  has,  too,"  said 
Mary  Mallon,  taking  up  her  cans. 

"  Sure  one  ould  woman's  a  good  deal  like  an- 
other," said  Mrs.  Nolan.  "  But  when  ye  have  such 
a  heart  for  your  own  people,  ma'am,  I  suppose  ye 
must  be  glad  to  be  back  in  ould  Ireland." 

"  I  have  no  people,"  said  Mary  Mallon.  "  I've 
been  down  through  the  counthry  lookin'  for  them 
where  I  left  them.  They're  all  dead  an'  forgotten 
in  their  own  place,  long  ago." 

She  turned  and  trudged  to  her  cart,  put  her  cans 
on  board,  mounted  to  her  seat  beside  her  son  who 
was  in  charge  of  it,  and  drove  of¥  out  of  the  town 
of  Ballybatter, 


256  GRANNY  GROGAN. 

Bawneen  was  distant  about  a  mile  and  a  half 
along  a  by-road  which  took  to  the  hills,  and  Mrs. 
Mallon  was  at  home  when  she  reached  a  small  white 
gate  leading  to  a  good  cottage  with  a  rose  half  cov- 
ering the  whitewash.  Behind  were  a  few  fields 
where  half  a  dozen  cows  were  at  grass.  Young 
Mallon  went  round  to  the  back  premises  with  the 
pony  and  cart  and  cans,  and  his  mother  walked 
into  the  kitchen  of  her  cottage.  The  interior  was 
neat  and  bright.  Her  daughter,  a  girl  of  eighteen, 
welcomed  her  with  smiles. 

"  You  look  tired,  mother." 

"  I'm  dead  bet,  Janie.  The  breath's  been  took 
out  of  me.  I  seen  the  ghost  of  my  gran'mother  in 
a  lane  of  Ballybatter." 

Janie  laughed.  "  That's  some  comfort  for  you, 
surely,  mother,  after  the  search  you  have  been  mak- 
ing for  your  own  people." 

"  It  was  herself — face  an'  voice,  an'  all,  an'  the 
very  blink  of  her  eyelids  up  at  me." 

"  I  never  heard  you  talk  much  about  your  gran'- 
mother," said  Janie.  "  It  was  always  your  mother 
you  were  thinkin'  about." 

"  I  didn't  know  I  remembered  my  gran'mother 
at  all  till  I  saw  their  Granny  Grogan,"  said  Mrs. 
Mallon,  "  and  then  she  flashed  up  in  my  mind,  the 
same  as  if  you  put  a  match  to  a  candle.  My  mother 
was  altogether  difTerent.  She  was  tall,  an'  straight, 
an'  han'some.  an'  her  eyes  were  brown  an'  her  hair 
was  black.     This  little  crature's  eyes  are  as  blue 


ROSA    MULHOLLAND    GILBERT.  257 

as  yours,  an'  she  never  could  have  been  big.  I  see 
my  gran'mother  now,  as  plain  as  can  be,  in  a  little 
bed  like  that  again'  the  wall  in  the  corner,  an'  the 
voice  of  her  chattin'  out  to  us  childher." 
"  Will  you  have  a  cup  of  tea,  mother  ?  " 
"  I  couldn't  swallow  anythin'  just  at  present.  I 
tell  ye,  the  blankets  on  that  old  crature's  bed  are 
terrible,  an'  I  felt  the  pains  in  my  own  fingers 
lookin'  at  her  poor  rheumatized  hands.  I'll  want 
to  go  down  to  Donnelly's  shop  to-morrow  to  get 
some  warm  things  an'  take  them  to  her." 

Janie  went  to  bed  that  night  perplexed  at  her 
mother's  persistence  in  dwelling  on  the  recollec- 
tion of  her  grandmother;  and  long  after  her  son 
and  daughter  were  asleep,  and  the  little  house  was 
silent,  Mrs.  Mallon  sat  at  the  fire  staring  into  the 
coals,  and  going  back  as  far  as  memory  would  carry 
her  into  the  events  of  her  own  earlier  life.  At  ftf- 
teen  she  had  been  hurried  out  of  her  home  in  an 
extraordinary  and  unexpected  manner.  The  little 
home  had  stood  among  the  Connemara  hills. 
There,  in  the  heart  of  the  fire,  the  woman  of  fifty 
years  could  see,  as  vividly  as  though  she  were  still 
living  in  a  far-distant  moment  of  time,  the  moun- 
tain and  moorland  scene  before  the  cabin  door. 
The  chain  of  hills,  dark  with  evening  purple,  or 
glittering  in  dew  and  sunshine,  filled  the  back- 
ground capped  with  flying  clouds.  The  dazzling 
green  of  the  bit  of  wet  pasture  was  at  her  feet,  the 
mellow  coloring  and  sad  shadows  of  the  bogland 


258  GRANNY  GROG  AN. 

lay  between,  and  here  and  there  among  the  mists  a 
mile  away  the  gable  of  a  neighbor's  house  gleamed. 
A  goat  browsed  on  a  bit  of  green  bank,  the  wind 
shook  the  tassels  of  the  alder-bush,  stunted  by 
many  storms,  that  sheltered  the  cabin  thatch.  On 
a  little  causeway  of  rough  stones  before  the  door  a 
few  hens  were  feeding  on  a  potato  just  broken  and 
thrown  to  them  by  a  little  girl  who  was  standing 
on  the  threshold.  "  Ova  Maury  !  Man — ry  I 
Ora  Maury  ! "  cried  a  voice  from  a  distance,  and 
the  child  turned  and  saw  her  mother,  saw  her  as 
Mrs.  Mallon  had  described  her  to  her  daughter 
Janie.  The  mother  passed  out  into  the  field,  and 
little  Mary  passed  in  to  attend  to  her  grandmother. 
This  dream  with  its  pictured  figures  and  echo 
of  voices  seemed  a  life  more  real  to  the  woman 
than  any  she  had  known  in  her  later  years.  The 
vision  remained  where  memory  stores  up  its  first 
prints,  impressions  sharply  bitten  in,  not  to  be  ob- 
literated by  images  overlaid  upon  them.  While 
she  stared  in  the  fire  the  coals  fell  in,  the  picture 
shifted  and  changed,  a  burning  sun  hung  over  the 
landscape,  and  the  girl  Mary,  now  grown  older, 
watched  a  funeral  wending  along  the  moun- 
tain road,  and  wept  at  the  cries  of  the  mourners 
coming  to  her  on  the  wind.  It  was  the  time  of 
the  Big  Hunger,  and  she  saw  her  father  gasping  for 
death,  and  her  mother  wringing  her  hands  by  his 
side.  The  little  children  sobbed,  and  there  was  no 
bread  and  no  meal;  the  potatoes  were  rotted  in  the 


HOSA    MULIIOLLAND    GILBERT.  259 

ground.  Neighbors  came  as  beggars  to  the  door, 
and  could  not  find  relief.  White  faces  were  every- 
where, and  dead  men  and  women  were  lying  un- 
buried  by  the  roadside. 

Mrs.  Mallon  watched  attentively  as  she  saw  the 
girl  come  out  of  the  house  before  dawn,  and,  after 
a  long  look  back  at  the  cabin,  set  off  running  down 
the  road  towards  the  nearest  town.  It  was  a  long 
way  off,  that  town,  the  girl  did  not  know  how  long, 
but  she  had  heard  that  bread  could  be  had  there, 
and  her  intention  was  to  beg  for  bread  and  return 
with  it  to  the  hungry. 

She  remembered  the  lifts  on  carts,  the  long 
weary  miles  of  walking,  and  her  uneasiness  when 
the  night  came  down.  But  her  purpose  remained 
undaunted — to  reach  the  town  and  to  procure 
bread.  Arrived  in  the  streets,  she  was  swept  away 
with  a  crowd  pressing  towards  a  vessel  which  lay  in 
the  harbor  ready  to  set  sail  for  America.  There  on 
board  that  ship,  said  some  one,  they  are  giving  out 
bread,  and  if  you  go  on  board  you  will  get  it.  She 
went  on  board.  She  was  weary  and  bewildered; 
they  gave  her  some  food  and  a  place  to  rest.  But 
when  she  thought  of  returning  on  shore  the  vessel 
had  sailed  and  was  a  good  way  out  at  sea. 

Of  her  struggles  and  sufferings  after  she  was 
landed  in  America  Mary  Mallon  could  not  bear  to 
think.  She  escaped  some  great  dangers,  she  made 
her  way  among  decent  people  who  procured  her 
respectable  employment.     She  got  a  letter  written 


26o  GRANNY  GROG  AN. 

home,  but  it  produced  no  answer.  With  great  de- 
termination she  appHed  herself  to  learn  to  read  and 
write,  and  letter  after  letter  was  sent  home  by  her 
to  the  mountains.  At  last,  one  bitter  morning, 
there  came  a  reply.  All  her  people,  without  ex- 
ception, had  died  of  the  famine.  She  was  an  or- 
phan and  alone  in  the  world. 

Flitting  over  her  years  of  desolate  striving,  Mrs. 
Mallon  reviewed  her  happy  married  life.  Her  hus- 
band was  good  to  her,  and  when  he  died,  left  her 
money  enough  to  enable  her  to  remain  prosperous 
with  industry.  She  remembered  how  after  the 
children  were  grown  up  a  craving  awoke  in  her, 
urging  her  to  return  to  the  old  land  and  settle 
there,  maybe  to  come  on  the  track  of  some  of  her 
father's  or  mother's  people,  or  even  to  discover 
their  graves.  A  year  ago  she  had  arrived  in  Ire- 
land, just  thirty-five  years  since  she  had  sailed  from 
there  out  of  the  Big  Hunger.  Before  making  up 
her  mind  to  settle  anywhere  she  had  undertaken 
a  pilgrimage  to  her  native  mountains.  She  and 
her  son  and  daughter  had  stopped  a  week  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  spot  on  which  memory  as- 
sured her  that  her  father's  cabin  stood.  Only  a 
heap  of  gray  stones  was  on  the  site.  That,  she 
was  told,  Avas  one  of  the  houses  throw^n  down  in  the 
famine  year.  Sure  the  people  all  died  that  had 
lived  in  them,  and  the  only  way  they  had  to  bury 
them  was  to  tumble  the  walls  on  them  ! 

It  was  so  long  ago,  so  long  ago,  and  yet,  as  Mary 


ROSA    MULHOLLAND    GILBERT.  26 1 

Mallon  sat  staring  into  the  fire,  tears  dropped 
down  her  face  to  think  of  how  she  had  run  out  of 
her  mother's  sight  "  unknownt  "  to  get  bread,  and 
had  never  come  back.  "  What  did  she  think  o' 
me,  at  all,  at  all  ?  "  whispered  Mary  to  herself. 
''  Or  did  the  death  come  on  her  so  suddent  that  she 
hadn't  time  to  miss  me  ?  " 

Then  Mrs.  Mallon  went  down  on  her  knees  and 
prayed  aloud  in  the  silent  house  for  her  dead 
mother,  father,  grandmother,  brothers,  and  sisters, 
and  so  eased  her  heart  before  she  lay  down  to 
sleep. 

When  she  wakened  in  the  morning  her  first 
thought  was  for  Granny  Grogan,  She  sent  her 
son  to  take  round  the  milk,  and  soon  after  walked 
into  Donnelly's  shop,  where  she  purchased  the  best 
pair  of  blankets  in  the  place,  besides  some  com- 
fortable woollen  garments.  With  her  arms  full  of 
these  she  proceeded  down  the  Court  and  entered 
into  Granny  Grogan's  kitchen.  Before  any  one 
could  follow  she  had  seized  the  little  old  cripple  in 
her  strong  embrace,  dressed  her  in  the  new  warm 
clothing,  and  wrapped  her  up  in  the  blankets.  The 
matrons  of  Sweeny's  Court  were,  at  the  moment, 
occupied  in  their  own  houses  or  visiting  round 
the  corner  hearing  the  particular  morning  news  of 
Daly's  Lane.  Mrs.  Mallon  had  the  granny's  kit- 
chen all  to  herself  for  an  hour.  She  made  a  pot  of 
good  tea,  and  boiled  an  ^%%.,  and  cut  a  plateful  of 
fresh  bread  and  dainty  butter. 


262  GRANNY  GROG  AN, 

"  I  had  a  gran'mother  once  of  my  own,"  she 
said,  as  she  served  the  meal,  "  and  I'm  goin'  to  call 
you  Granny." 

"  You  may  call  me  what  you  plaze,  my  dear,  but 
you're  too  ould  to  be  my  gran'daughter,"  the  old 
woman  said  with  her  twinkling  upward  smile,  from 
a  bent  face  that  could  not  be  uplifted. 

"  I  was  young  and  small  when  my  granny  was 
the  same  as  you,"  said  Mrs.  Mallon.  "  She  was 
my  mother's  mother,  an'  as  like  you  as  two  peas 
in  a  pod.  Have  you  got  no  gran'childher  of  your 
own,  Granny  Grogan  ?  " 

"  Sorra  chick  nor  child.  All  of  the  childher  died 
on  me.  None  of  them  lived  to  be  married,  neither, 
so  how  could  I  have  gran'childher,  dear  ?  " 

"  How  long  have  you  been  livin'  in  this  Court, 
Granny  Grogan  ?  " 

"  Ever  since  I  came  here  with  my  second  hus- 
band, dear.  He  wasn't  as  good  a  man  as  the  first 
— God  be  merciful  to  them  both;  but  we  can't  have 
everything." 

"  Were  you  ever  in  the  country  where  the  moun- 
tains and  fields  do  be  ?  " 

"  Was  I,  is  it  ?  Oh,  then,  heavenly  Father, 
didn't  I  live  an'  die  there  ?  Sure  my  heart  is 
buried  in  it,  an'  it's  only  a  dead  woman  I  am  ever 
since  I  left  it." 

"  What  part  of  the  country  did  ye  live  in  ?  " 

"  Did  ye  ever  hear  tell  o'  the  Twelve  Pins  of 
Connemara  ?  " 


ROSA    MULHOLLAND    GILBERT. 


26s 


"  Wasn't  I  down  there  thravellin'  about  a  month 
or  two  ago  ?  " 

"  For  God's  sake  !  An'  will  ye  tell  me  if  the 
hills  is  where  they  used  to  be  all  them  long,  long 
years  ago,  acushla  ?  Sure  the  Irish  comes  on  me 
tongue  again  when  I  think  o'  them.  Och  !  it's  me 
that  was  oncet  the  happy  woman  carryin'  home 
the  turf  from  the  bog  an'  sweepin'  out  me  house 
with  a  broom  made  o'  the  beautiful  heather.  An' 
the  potatoes  growin'  in  at  the  dure,  an'  the  larks 
singin'  up  in  the  clouds  just  fit  to  deave  ye." 
"  Woman  alive  !  Why  did  ye  ever  lave  it  ?  " 
"  Och  !  dear,  I  didn't  lave  it  with  a  light  heart, 
I  can  assure  ye,  an'  that  not  till  me  husband  an'  me 
childher  died  of  the  Black  Hunger  on  me,  and  me- 
self  left  for  dead,  an'  nearly  buried  along  with 
them.  I  don't  know  how  I  crawled  away  from  it 
all  an'  made  me  way  up  here,  an'  pulled  meself  to- 
gether again.  But  sure  it  wasn't  me  at  all  that 
was  in  it,  afther,  only  a  poor  cracked  crature  that 
had  to  put  in  a  year  in  an  asylum  afore  me  head 
came  right  again." 

Mary  Mallon  left  the  fireside  and  came  and  sat 
down  by  the  bed. 

"  It's  no  wonder  I  took  to  ye,"  she  said,  "  for 
meself  remembers  the  Black  Hunger  well." 
"  You're  hardly  ould  enough,  dear." 
"  I  was  young  at  the  time,  of  course." 
"  I  niver  heard  of  any  of  your  name  where  I 
came  from,"  said  Mrs.  Grogan. 


264  GRANNY  GROGAN.       I 

"  An'  I  disremember  your  name  in  the  place 
where  I  was." 

"  Did  your  gran'mother  that  you  do  be  talkin' 
about  die  in  the  Hunger,  alanna  ?  " 

"  Sure  the  grass  was  growin'  on  her  years  afore 
that.  It  was  me  mother  that  died  in  it — me 
mother  and  me  father,  an'  me  sisters  an'  me  broth- 
ers.    Only  meself  got  away  to  America  out  of  it." 

"  You're  not  like  me,"  said  Granny  Grogan,  "  ye 
thruv  well  out  of  it.  It  came  at  the  young  end 
o'  your  life.  But  ye  have  the  heart  that  desarves 
to  prosper.  Look  at  all  this  that  ye've  been  doin' 
for  me  !  " 

After  that  the  tie  between  the  Irish-American 
and  Granny  Grogan  became  closer  every  day.  Two 
or  three  times  a  week  Mrs.  Mallon  was  in  the 
granny's  kitchen,  taking  her  milk,  or  eggs,  or  tea, 
or  some  other  comfort  to  make  her  life  of  pain  less 
irksome.  At  last  there  came  a  day  when  she  ar- 
rived and  found  an  unusual  commotion  in  the 
Court.  The  crowd  that  had  gathered  at  its  open- 
ing fell  back  and  made  way  when  the  large  figure 
and  strong,  intelligent  face  of  Mary  Mallon  were 
seen  approaching. 

"  What's  all  this  about  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Mallon. 

"  Och,  sure,  it's  what  they're  come  to  take 
Granny  Grogan  to  the  poorhouse,  God  help  her  ! 
The  lan'lord  wants  her  house." 

"  Haven't  I  paid  her  rent  for  her  this  month  past, 
faithful  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Mallon  indignantly. 


ROSA    MULHOLLAND    GILBERT.  265 

"  You  did,  jewel.  But,  ye  see,  there's  a  dale  of 
errors  due,"  said  Mrs.  Nolan,  who  had  forced  her- 
self to  the  front. 

"  An'  they  say  the  landlord's  goin'  to  pull  down 
the  house  an'  make  it  habitationable,"  said  another 
neighbor. 

"  Isn't  there  any  place  else  to  be  had  ?  "  asked 
Mary  Mallon. 

"  Plenty,"  said  some  one,  "  only  nobody  will  let 
a  place  to  a  desticute  ould  crature  like  the  likes  o' 
her." 

Mrs.  Mallon's  face  showed  all  its  strongest 
lines,  and  she  shut  her  mouth,  and  pushed  her  way 
up  to  the  top  of  the  Court.  Sure  enougli,  prepara- 
tions were  being  made  for  conveying  Granny  Gro- 
gan  to  the  Union. 

One  or  two  officials  were  in  the  little  kitchen 
and  a  vehicle  stood  at  the  door.  Mrs.  Mallon 
went  in,  and  the  little  weak  eyes  of  the  old  creature 
in  the  bed  glinted  up  at  her  with  a  watery  smile  in 
them. 

"  You  see  it's  the  will  o'  God,  acushla  !  "  she 
said,  with  a  piteous  attempt  at  cheerfulness.  "  Ye 
did  what  ye  could  for  me.  All  of  yez  was  good  to 
me.  But  His  Majesty  himself  has  sent  for  me. 
Why  but  I  would  go  ?  " 

Mrs.  Mallon  turned  to  the  officials. 

"  Clear  out  of  this,"  she  said  in  a  loud,  ringing 
voice. 

"  Sorr)'  not  to  oblige  ye,  ma'am,"  said  the  fore- 


266  GRANNY  GROG  AN. 

most  man,  who  was  about  to  lift  the  old  woman, 
blankets  and  all,  out  of  her  bed  into  the  convey- 
ance outside. 

"  Clear  out  o'  this,  I  tell  yez,"  said  Mary  Mallon, 
and  she  suddenly  seized  the  man,  who  was  but  a 
small  specimen  of  his  sex,  in  her  strong  arms, 
whirled  him  outside  the  door,  and  placed  him 
standing  on  the  pavement. 

"  An  assault  !  "  shrieked  the  official.  "  Ye'll  pay 
for  this,  ma'am  !  " 

"  Be  off  out  o'  the  place,  or  it's  salted  ye'll  be  in 
airnest,"  shouted  Mrs.  Mallon.  "  But  don't  be 
afeard  but  what  ye'll  get  yer  dirty  kitchen  !  Sure 
it's  rotted  to  death  the  crature  is  in  it  these  years 
past.  Here,  Katie,  run  for  a  cab  for  me,  an'  get 
the  best  one,  an'  the  comfortablest  one  ye  can  clap 
yer  eyes  on  !  " 

By  this  time  the  crowd  was  round  the  door,  and 
every  one  was  pushing  to  get  a  sight  of  what  was 
going  on  within  Granny's  kitchen.  Mrs.  Mooney 
came  struggling  out  from  the  interior,  "dunching" 
with  her  elbows  till  she  placed  herself  where  she 
wanted  to  be. 

"  Yez  may  as  well  be  ofif,"  she  said  to  the  offi- 
cials. "  She  gives  ye  lave  to  summons  her  to- 
morrow. Yez  can  bring  her  before  the  Queen  if 
ye  like.  An'  may  I  niver  see  the  light  of  heaven 
if  I  don't  think  she's  goin'  to  take  Granny  Grogan 
home  with  her  this  minnit  to  her  own  place  !  " 
A  chorus  of  exclamations  greeted  this  speech, 


J^OSA    MULHOLLAND    GILBERT.  26/ 

and  even  the  insulted  official  left  off  fuming,  and 
stared  with  open  mouth  at  Mrs.  Mooney. 

"  Ye'd  betther  drive  off  in  your  kyerridge,  the 
pair  of  yez  !  "  continued  Mrs.  Mooney  sarcasti- 
cally. "  There's  a  betther  convaynience  busy 
waitin'  to  step  up  to  the  dure." 

Curiosity  to  see  what  was  about  to  happen  over- 
powered all  other  feelings  in  the  official  mind,  and 
they  made  way  for  the  cab  which  now  came  up  the 
Court,  with  little  Katie's  smutty  face  grinning  in 
delight  through  the  window.  A  very  few  minutes 
saw  Mrs.  Mallon's  intention  fulfilled.  She  carried 
out  the  granny,  and  placed  her  in  the  cab  as  if  she 
had  been  a  baby,  and  drove  off  with  her  amid  the 
cheers  of  the  bystanders.  No  sooner  had  the  crowd 
realized  what  had  happened  than  numbers  set  off 
to  run  after  the  cab,  and  to  assure  themselves  that 
the  thriving  American  dairy-woman  had  taken 
bodily  possession  of  Granny  Grogan.  Even  the 
outraged  officials  followed  meekly,  and  forgot  their 
wrongs  in  sympathy  with  the  general  enthusiasm. 
When,  finally,  they  saw  the  granny  hoisted  out  of 
the  cab,  and  disappearing  through  the  cottage 
doorway,  they  set  up  such  a  cheer  as  brought  Mary 
Mallon  out  to  her  little  wicket  to  say  a  w^ord  of 
good-by  for  the  granny  to  the  neighbors. 

"  She'll  niver  forget  your  kindness.  She's  thank- 
ful to  the  whole  of  ye,"  said  Mary  Mallon,  the 
strong  face  lighting  up  with  a  broad  smile.  "  An' 
yez  needn't  be  frettin'  any  more  about  the  crature, 


268  GRANNY  GROG  AN. 

for  it's  meself  that  is  goin'  to  take  the  best  o'  good 
care  of  her." 

Meanwhile  Granny  Grogan  had  been  deposited 
on  Mrs.  Mallon's  bed  in  her  own  room,  a  pleasant 
little  spot  with  a  cheap  yellow  paper  on  the  wall, 
giving  it  a  sunny  aspect,  with  a  comfortable  piece 
of  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  neat  white  curtains  on 
the  window,  the  sill  of  which  was  gay  with  wall- 
flowers. The  bed  was  one  of  luxury  to  the  poor 
old  creature,  who  kept  murmuring  alternately  inco- 
herent prayers  and  ejaculations  of  amazement. 

When  Mrs.  Mallon  turned  into  the  house  again 
she  directed  her  daughter  Janie  to  make  a  cup  of 
tea  and  carry  it  to  Granny  Grogan.  Being  some- 
what in  need  of  refreshment  herself,  she  was  about 
raising  a  tea-cup  to  her  lips  when  she  heard  some- 
thing that  stayed  her  hand  and  caused  her  to  throw 
up  her  face  with  a  look  of  wonder  and  excitement. 

The  sound  that  had  startled  her  was  of  a  voice, 
high-pitched,  clear,  sweet,  crying  as  if  to  some  one 
at  a  distance. 

"  Ova  Maury — Mau-ry  !     Ora  Maury  !  " 

Janie  came  out  of  the  inner  room  smiling,  but 
stood  still  in  surprise  as  her  eyes  fell  on  her  mother. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  said.  "  Mother,  what's  the 
matter  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  heard  my  mother's  voice  callin'  me,"  said 
Mary  Mallon,  staring  at  her. 

"  Why,  it  was  only  Granny  Grogan,  poor  old 
creature.      The  moment  she  set  eyes  on  me  she 


ROSA    MULHOLLAND    GILBERT.  269 

Opened  her  mouth  and  set  up  that  extraordinary 
screeching." 

Mrs.  ]\Iallon  sat  down  at  the  table  and  leaned  her 
head  on  her  hand.  "  I  wonder  what  is  on  me  at 
all,  at  all  ?  "  she  said  helplessly. 

"  That  old  woman  has  bewitched  you,"  said 
Janie. 

Mrs.  Mallon  got  up  and  went  slowly  across  the 
kitchen  into  the  inner  room.  There  she  found 
Granny  Grogan  shaking  and  trembling  in  the  bed, 
with  tears  dropping  down  from  her  poor  old  eyes 
all  over  the  quilt. 

"  What  on  airth  is  aildin'  you,  granny  dear  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Mallon. 

"  O  holy  Mother  o'  God  !  O  Vargin  Mother, 
isn't  it  the  ghost  o'  my  young  girsha  that 
is  afther  walkin'  in  to  me  !  Ora,  what  sort  of 
a  place  is  this  at  all,  at  all  ?  Is  it  heaven  ye 
brought  us  to,  whin  my  Maury  is  in  it — the  daugh- 
ter that  wint  out  from  me  one  mornin'  an'  niver 
came  back  ?  " 

"  Didn't  ye  tell  me  that  yer  childher  all  were 
dead  since  the  year  o'  the  Hunger  ?  "  said  Mary 
Mallon,  beginning  to  shake  and  tremble  also. 

"  An'  what  but  death  would  ha'  kept  my  girsha 
from  comin'  back  to  me  ?  Sick  with  the  hunger 
.she  was  like  the  rest  of  us,  an'  she  died  on  the 
mountain  or  in  the  bogs  without  a  Christian  to 
spake  to  her.  Sure  her  grave  is  in  my  heart,  but 
sorra  'nother  grave  do  I  know  of  that  iver  you  were 


270  GRANNY  GROG  AN. 

laid  in,  my  gra  gal  machree,  Mary  O'Shaugh- 
nessy  !  " 

Mrs.  Mallon  uttered  a  sharp  cry.  "  How  could 
your  daughter  be  Mary  O'Shaughnessy,  Granny 
Grogan  ?  " 

"  How  ?  Because  she  was  Denis  O'Shaugh- 
nessy's  child,  an'  him  her  father,  an'  why  else  ? 
Denis  O'Shaughnessy,  the  husband  o'  my  youth, 
alanna,  asthore  machree  !  Sure  I  niver  was  Gro- 
gan until  sorra  had  batthered  and  twishted  me  into 
somebody  that  wasn't  the  like  o'  me  at  all,  at  all  !  " 

Mary  Mallon  stood  for  a  few  moments  with  her 
face  hidden  in  her  hands,  and  her  intelligent  brains 
at  work  thinking  something  out.  Presently  she 
sat  down  beside  the  agitated  old  woman  and  put  a 
strong  arm  round  the  crippled  shoulders. 

"  Mother  !  "  she  said — "  Mother  !  I  am  really 
your  daughter,  Mary  O'Shaughnessy." 

"  Yon,  Mrs.  Mallon  ?  Oh,  no,  dear.  You're 
good  enough  to  be  a  daughter  to  me,  but  my 
daughter  was  a  young  girsha.  And  the  eyes  of  her 
were  blue,  an'  the  hair  of  her  was  brown  an'  light 
an'  curly.  Oh,  vo  !  didn't  I  see  the  ghost  of  her  a 
minute  ago,  smilin'  at  me,  an'  smilin'  at  me  with 
the  very  heart's  blood  of  the  smile  that  she  did  al- 
ways have  for  me  ?  " 

"  Mother,  that  girl  is  my  daughter.  She's  maybe 
like  what  I  was  when  I  quit  out  an'  left  you.  Sure 
I  mind  it  all  as  well  as  if  it  were  yesterday.  Ye  were 
standin'  over  my  father,  an'  him  lyin'  on  the  floor. 


J?OSA    MULHOLLAND    GILBERT.  27 1 

You  said  'twas  only  bread  would  cure  him,  an' 
somebody  told  me  there  was  bread  givin'  out  in 
the  town.  An'  when  I  got  to  the  town  they  told 
me  there  was  bread  on  the  ship.  An'  when  I  got 
to  the  ship  they  sailed  out  to  sea  with  me.  An' 
people  wrote  out  to  me  that  the  whole  o'  you 
were  dead.  An'  I  lived  my  life  in  America  till  last 
year,  when  the  longin'  riz  up  in  me  to  come  back 
to  the  old  country.  An'  then  I  sthravaigned  into 
Sweeny's  Court  with  my  milk-cans,  an'  I  saw  you 
lookin'  the  image  of  my  gran'mother.  It's  the 
years  that  has  done  it  on  the  whole  of  us,  ye  see. 
They  turned  you  into  a  likeness  of  your  own 
mother — that's  my  granny — and  they  brought  up 
my  Janie  to  be  the  moral  of  her  mother — that's 
myself — as  I  was  when  yourself  last  lost  sight  o' 
me,  mother  avourneen  !  " 

It  was  long  before  Granny  Grogan  was  able  to 
understand  the  state  of  afifairs,  but  when  at  last  she 
was  made  to  realize  that  her  own  daughter  and 
grandchildren  were  around  her  the  joy  and  excite- 
ment of  it  all  nearly  cost  her  her  life.  After  some 
time,  however,  she  grew  accustomed  to  the  happi- 
ness that  had  come  to  her,  and  for  the  rest  of  her 
days  was  an  object  of  devotion  to  her  family,  and 
of  extraordinary  interest  to  the  kindly  neighbors  of 
old  who  had  been  so  good  to  her  in  Sweeny's 
Court. 


MRS.  BARTLE  TEELING. 


Mrs.  Bartle  Teelinc  {ne'e  Theodora  Louisa  Lane  Clarke) 
was  born  in  Guernsey,  but  passed  her  childhood  in  Wood- 
eaton,  Oxford,  where  her  father  was  Rector.  On  his  death 
his  widow  returned  with  their  only  child  to  Guernsey,  and 
became  there  a  centre  of  literary  and  scientific  interest  and 
mental  activity  as  student  and  writer  of  natural  history,  etc., 
and  author  of  several  scientific  manuals. 

Mrs.  Lane  Clarke  was  a  strong  Protestant,  but  her  daugh- 
ter, the  subject  of  this  sketch,  after  years  of  anxious  thought 


and  deep  but  solitary  research,  for  she  had  not  a  single 
Catholic  acquaintance,  was  received  into  the  Church. 

Shortly  after  her  conversion,  while  she  was  still  under 
twenty-one,  she  made  her  first  essay  in  literature,  al  the 
request  of  Father  Lockhart,  in  The  Lamp^  of  which  he  was 
editor. 

Her  marriage,  which  was  solemnized  by  Father  Lockhart, 
was  the  first  marriage  which  took  place  in  the  historic 
church  of  St.  Etheldreda  since  "  the  Reformation." 

Since  the  death  of  her  mother,  whom  she  had  the  happi- 
ness of  bringing  into  the  Church,  Mrs.  Teeling  has  published 
some  fifty  articles  and  biographical  sketches  in  The  Month, 
Temple  Bar,  The  Catholic  World,  The  Gentleman's  Mag- 
azine, and  other  publications. 

Although  she  has  seven  young  children  and  all  the  cares 
of  a  household,  scarcely  a  month  passes  that  she  has  not  an 
article  in  at  least  one  of  the  many  magazines  to  which  she 
contributes 


Iber  Xast  Stafte, 

BY    MRS.    BARTLE    TEELING. 

CHAPTER  I. 

It  was  only  the  month  of  May  ;  yet  the  season 
was  already  almost  August-like  in  its  sultry  heat, 
and  shops  were  beginning  to  put  up  their  shutters 
with  the  customary  notice,  "  Ouverture  le  ire 
Octobre,"  and  hotel  omnibuses  to  convey  huge 
mountains  of  trunks  and  portmanteaux  to,  instead 
of  from,  the  unpretending  little  railway  station 
which,  like  all  its  fellows,  has  welcomed  so  many  il- 
lustrious strangers  to  the  Riviera. 

Just  as  the  day  was  at  its  hottest,  and  the  "  but- 
terflies of  fashion,"  as  some  one  calls  them,  had 
presumably  folded  their  wings  to  rest  until  sun- 
down— for  few,  if  any,  were  to  be  seen  flitting  in 
and  out  of  the  gorgeous  hotels  which  seem  to 
constitute  modern  Mentone — two  slender,  black- 
robed  figures  advanced  somewhat  timidly  up  the 
footpath  leading  to  one  of  the  largest  of  these, 
and,   after  a  brief  parley  with  the   porter,   were 

275 


276  HBR  LAST  STAKE. 


ushered  into  a  large  and  luxuriously  furnished 
salon. 

To  them  there  entered,  after  a  few  minutes'  de- 
lay, a  quiet-looking,  middle-aged  lady  with  gray 
hair  and  placid  expression,  who  cast  an  inquiring 
glance  upon  her  visitors  as  she  advanced  with  a 
little  bow  towards  them. 

"  You  speak  English  ?  "  she  inquired  hesitat- 
ingly, as  the  two  nuns  rose  to  receive  her. 

"  We  arc  English,"  was  the  unexpected  reply 
from  the  elder  of  the  two,  given  in  rich,  round 
tones;  "  that  is  to  say,  we  are  Irish." 

"  Irish  ?  Oh  !  "  and  the  lady's  face  brightened 
as  she  held  out  both  hands  to  the  visitors.  "  Irish 
nuns  ?  What  an  unexpected,  welcome  sight  !  " 
she  went  on,  drawing  a  chair  close  to  them. 
"  Where  did  you  come  from,  and  how  came  you 
here  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  it  doesn't  seem  the  place  for  us,  does 
it  ?  "  laughed  the  nun.  "  I  never  felt  more  out  of 
my  element.  But  the  fact  is,  we  are  on  a  begging 
tour." 

"  What  Order  do  you  belong  to  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Mortimer,  glancing  at  their  black  habits  and  white 
coifs  as  if  seeking  some  indication  which  might 
guide  her.  "  Nazareth  Nuns,  Little  Sisters  of  the 
Poor,  Sceurs  de  Nevers — you  seem  to  look  a  little 
like  each,  and  yet  to  be  unlike  all." 

"  Well,  we  are  a  new  nursing  order,  founded  not 
many  years  ago — our  foundress  still  lives — with 


MRS.    BARTLE    TEELING.  2/7 

houses  in  England  and  in  Italy;  and  we  have  been 
sent  out  from  the  latter  country  to  collect  subscrip- 
tions all  along  this  line." 

"  Principally  from  the  English  visitors,  I  sup- 
pose ?  " 

"  Well,  yes  ;  for  we  are  not  very  strong  in 
French,  either  of  us."  And  the  good-tempered 
Irishwoman  smiled  across  to  her  companion  in 
placid  contentment  with  her  own  linguistic  short- 
comings. So  they  chatted  on  for  awhile  of  their 
houses,  their  Order,  and  their  work;  and  then  they 
rose  to  go,  as  Mrs.  Mortimer  pulled  out  her  purse. 

"  Here  is  my  little  offering,  sisters,"  she  said,  as 
she  laid  a  small  gold  piece  in  Sister  Raphael's  hand. 
"  I  wish  it  were  more,  for  I  feel  quite  interested  in 
your  work;  but  you  know  even  a  quiet,  lone  body 
like  myself  has  many  calls  on  the  purse." 

''  Do  you  stay  here  long  ?  "  asked  Sister  Raphael 
of  her,  just,  as  it  seemed,  for  the  sake  of  conversa- 
tion as  she  ushered  them  across  the  big,  palm- 
decked  hall. 

"  I  have  been  here  all  the  winter  for  my  health, 
but  I  am  leaving  to-morrow.  By  the  bye,  how  did 
you  come  to  hear  of  me  ?  "  she  asked,  stopping 
short  in  the  middle  of  the  hall  with  an  amused 
glance  back  at  them. 

"  Oh  !  we  manage  to  hunt  up  all  the  English 
names  everywhere — you  are  the  only  English  per- 
son now  in  this  hotel,  are  you  not  ?  " 

"  Yes.     There  are  still  a  good  many  people  here, 


/ 

278  HER  LAST  STAKE. 

but  none  of  them  English — except — ah,  yes " 

She  stopped  short  as  she  caught  sight  of  two  men 
advancing  towards  them,  who  were  whispering 
gravely  and  earnestly  together. 

"  Bon  jour,  Monsieur  Grosjean,"  she  called  out 
pleasantly  to  one  of  the  two — a  big,  heavy-looking 
Frenchman,  who  was  knitting  his  brows  and  biting 
his  lips  in  evident  perplexity  as  his  companion 
talked.  "  How  does  Monsieur  le  Mcdccin  find  his 
patient  to-day  ?  " 

Monsieur  Grosjean,  who  in  fact  was  no  less  than 
the  proprietor  of  the  hotel,  advanced  towards  the 
little  group,  slowly  shaking  his  head. 

"  Ah,  madame,  it  is  a  terrible  business — a  dread- 
ful thing  indeed,  for  me." 

"  What,  is  she  worse  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Mortimer 
quickly. 

"  Monsieur  le  Medecin  will  tell  you,"  he  replied, 
with  a  theatrical  gesture  towards  his  companion. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  the  lady  at  number 
27  ?  "  asked  IMrs.  Mortimer  of  the  vivacious-look- 
ing little  doctor,  who  was  drawing  on  his  gloves. 

With  a  glance  at  the  hotel  proprietor,  which  was 
answered  by  an  af^rmative  nod,  the  doctor  pro- 
nounced "  Typhus  fever,  madame,  of  the  most 
virulent  type " 

"  But,  O  madame,  I  implore  you,  let  it"  not  be 
known  among  my  penswnnmrcs  f "  breathed  the 
proprietor ;  "  it  would  ruin — simply  ruin  my 
hotel." 


MJ^S.    BARTLE    TEE  LING.  279 

*'  And  the  worst  of  it  is,  that  there  is  not  a  nurse 
to  be  had;  I  can't  have  my  patient  left  to  die  alone," 
muttered  the  doctor  discontentedly. 

"  Your  own  compatriot,  madame,"  murmured 
M.  Grosjean,  turning  his  big  black  eyes  plaintively 
upon  Mrs.  Mortimer,  as  though  he  sought  to 
transfer  the  burden  of  responsibility  from  his  own 
shoulders  to  hers. 

All  this  time  the  two  nuns  had  stood  patiently 
apart  under  the  palm-boughs,  wondering  whether 
they  might  slip  quietly  out  and  so  take  their  de- 
parture, or  whether  Mrs.  Mortimer  had  any  more 
last  words  to  say. 

"  Well,  monsieur,  if  she  \s  my  compatriot  I  can 
hardly  be  expected  to  nurse  her  myself,  can  I  ? 
Oh  !  stay,  though."  she  went  on,  as  her  eyes  fell 
upon  the  waiting  pair;  "  look  here,  these  nuns  are 
English  nursing  sisters:  suppose  you  set  one  of 
them  to  nurse  the  sick  lady  ?  " 

"  Nurses,  are  they  ?  "  exclaimed  the  little  doc- 
tor; and  he  darted  quickly  to  their  side  and  broke 
into  voluble  explanations  and  entreaties.  The 
sisters  turned  to  Mrs.  Mortimer  in  utter  bewilder- 
ment. 

"  My  dear  sisters,  yes — indeed  it  is  most  urgent. 
You  have  just  been  telling  me  that  your  work  is 
to  nurse  the  sick  in  their  own  homes,  rich  and  poor 
alike;  to  go  wherever  you  are  summoned,  irrespec- 
tive of  creed  or  position,  and  without  fixed  fee. 
Here  is  a  case  which  calls  for  charity  as  loudly  as 


28o  HER  LAST  STAK'E. 

any.  A  poor  lady,  staying  at  this  hotel  all  the 
winter,  has  been  taken  ill  with  typhus  fever,  and 
now  lies  unconscious  up-stairs.  No  nurse  can  be 
found  to  undertake  the  case;  and  I  fancy  the  pro- 
prietor does  not  care  to  make  himself  responsible 
for  the  payment  and  maintenance  of  one  of  the  ex- 
pensive style  of  English  nurses  who  are  the  only 
ones  to  be  found  hereabouts.  But  no  doubt  the 
lady's  friends  will  come  forward  later,  when  they 
can  be  communicated  with." 

The  sisters  hesitated,  and  then  began  to  consult 
together  in  low  tones,  the  youngest  nun  apparently 
objecting,  and  the  elder  urging  her  arguments. 
Presently  the  latter.  Sister  Raphael,  turned  to  Mrs. 
Mortimer,  the  proprietor  and  doctor  both  standing 
expectantly  aside. 

"  I  think,"  said  Sister  Raphael,  "  that  it  seems 
as  if  we  ought  to  do  something  for  the  poor  lady. 
But,  you  see,  we  cannot  definitely  undertake  the 
case  without  orders.  I  propose  that  Sister  Gabri- 
elle  here  should  remain  with  the  patient  for  a  few 
days,  while  I  continue  my  journey  homewards,  as 
I  have  business  to  transact  en  route,  and  meanwhile 
we  can  write  to  our  Mother  for  further  orders." 

"  Any  help,  even  for  a  day  or  two,  will  be  most 
welcome,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer;  and  she 
repeated  the  proposal  to  the  two  men,  who  im- 
mediately turned  to  Sister  Raphael  with  profuse 
expressions  of  gratitude. 

"  We  had  better  go  to  the  patient  at  once,"  then 


MRS.    BARTLE    TEE  LING.  28 1 

said  Sister  Raphael;  and  the  httle  doctor  turned  to 
accompany  them  up-stairs  and  install  his  new- 
found nurse. 

"  O  sister,  my  heart  fails  me — indeed  it  does  !  " 
whispered  Sister  Gabrielle,  as  they  follov/ed  him  up 
the  wide  marble  staircase.  "  It's  not  the  nursing 
I  am  afraid  of,  but  being  alone  in  this  great  big 
place,  and  not  a  soul  to  speak  to  in  my  own  lan- 
guage." 

"  Now,  Gabrielle  dear,  you  mustn't  speak  like 
that.     Sure,  Our  Lady  will  take  care  of  you." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  somewhat  plaintively  assented 
the  younger.  "  But  I  haven't  got  any  of  my  nurs- 
ing things,  you  know — aprons,  sleeves,  and  so  on. 
If — if — I  stay,  will  you  write  for  some  for  me  ?  " 

"  I'll  settle  all  that,  never  fear  !  "  said  cheery 
Sister  Raphael.  "I  wish  I  could  stay  myself,but  you 
know  I  am  bound  to  go  back  with  all  the  money 
and  business  letters  and  accounts  to  Mother." 

So  they  mounted  beyond  the  "  premiere  Stage," 
and  higher  still  beyond  the  "  dcnxiemc"  and  finally 
passed  along  the  corridor  and  paused  at  a  door 
before  which  hung  a  white  sheet  duly  soaked  in 
disinfectants. 

"  I  have  put  that  up  already,  you  see,"  remarked 
the  doctor,  touching  it.  "  Dangerous  thing  to  do, 
though — might  arouse  suspicion — told  the  cham- 
bermaid it  was  to  keep  out  draughts." 

He  lifted  it  for  them  to  pass,  and  they  went  on 
into  the  sick-room. 


282  HER  LAST  STAKE. 

A  close,  sickening  odor — the  peculiar  effluvia  of 
typhus — was  the  first  thing  of  which  they  became 
conscious  on  entering  the  apartment.  Then  they 
found  themselves  standing  beside  the  bed  whereon 
lay,  tossing  and  muttering  in  fevered  delirium,  a 
woman  of  some  forty  years  old,  whose  thin  hands 
wandered  feebly  to  and  fro  over  the  coverlet,  while 
her  dark  hair,  streaked  with  gray,  streamed  in 
tangled  masses  over  a  soiled  and  tumbled  pillow. 
A  table  beside  the  bed  was  crowded  with  medicine 
bottles,  half-empty  cups  and  glasses,  and  other 
paraphernalia  of  a  neglected  sick-room  ;  clothes 
and  soiled  linen  lay  upon  every  chair,  and  a  travel- 
ling trunk,  dragged  into  the  middle  of  the  room, 
stood  half-open. 

"  If  you  will  just  glance  round  and  see  what  you 
are  likely  to  want,  I  will  order  it  as  I  go  down,"  re- 
marked the  doctor.  "  And  I  will  look  in  again 
this  evening — in  fact,  I  think  for  the  future  I  shall 
pay  my  visits  only  after  dark,  as  the  proprietor  ob- 
jects to  a  doctor  being  seen  too  often  about  the 
place." 

The  nuns,  after  a  hasty  glance  round,  mentioned 
some  probable  wants:  a  spirit-lamp,  cups,  and  so 
on,  and  then  the  doctor  and  Sister  Raphael  turned 
to  go. 

"  Good-by,  dear  sister,"  whispered  the  latter  ; 
"  keep  up  your  heart,  and  send  us  news  of  you 
soon." 

And  then  Sister  Gabrielle  found  herself  alone. 


MRS.    BARTLE    TEE  LING.  283 

She  began  by  opening  the  window  for  a  moment, 
to  let  in  some  of  the  pure  fresh  air  wliich  seemed  so 
sadly  needed  in  that  fetid  sick-chamber;  and  then, 
after  one  brief,  refreshing  glance  at  the  glories  of 
sea  and  sky,  mountain  and  olive-yards,  which  were 
spread  out  before  her  as  she  closed  the  casement, 
she  proceeded  to  set  in  order  the  neglected  apart- 
ment. The  tumbled  bedclothes  were  smoothed, 
the  pillow  straightened,  with  deft  and  gentle  touch; 
soiled  clothes  and  empty  plates  and  glasses  cleared 
away,  and  a  look  of  cleanliness  and  order  dififused 
over  everything.  By  and  by  a  knock  came  to  the 
door,  and  a  tray  was  handed  in  to  her  with  some 
dinner  for  herself  and  a  basin  of  very  watery-look- 
ing beef-tea  for  the  invalid,  with  an  inquiry  as  to 
whether  anything  further  was  required  for  the 
night.  "  I  am  not  allowed  to  go  in,"  whispered 
the  coquettish-looking  chambermaid,  "  but  you  can 
ring  if  you  require  anything." 

Meanwhile  the  sick  woman  lay  quietly  on  her 
narrow  bed,  tossing  her  hot  hands  a  little  from  side 
to  side  as  though  in  search  of  some  cool  spot 
whereon  to  rest  them,  and  muttering  faintly  unin- 
telligible sentences  in  French  and  English  from 
time  to  time.  "  There  will  be  no  change  yet,"  pro- 
nounced the  doctor  at  his  evening  visit,  "  so  make 
yourself  a  bed  on  the  sofa  and  get  some  rest;  you 
may  need  it  later  on."  And  so  night  fell  upon  the 
silent  room. 


284  HER   X.AST  STAKE. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  days  passed  on  and  still  the  change,  for  life 
or  death,  delayed  its  coming.  Patient  Sister 
Gabrielle  still  watched  beside  her  unconscious 
charge,  sometimes  slipping  outside  the  heavy  cur- 
tain of  that  carbolized  sheet  which  shut  them  off — 
she  and  this  stranger  together — from  the  world 
without,  to  breathe  for  a  few  moments  the  purer  air 
of  the  corridor  and  its  open  window  looking  to- 
wards the  mountains,  until  the  pert  chambermaid 
who  waited  on  them  whispered  to  her  that  "  M.  le 
Proprictaire  requested  that  la  scciir  would  not  show 
herself  outside  the  room,  lest  other  visitors  should 
suspect  illness  there."  So  that  even  that  faint  re- 
laxation was  taken  from  her.  One  morning  he 
sent  word  to  her  to  come  to  his  bureau;  and  she 
went,  wondering  and  somewhat  anxious,  for  she 
knew  that  he  received  his  daily  report  from  the 
doctor,  and  asked  herself  wherein  she  could  supple- 
ment it. 

"  Bon  jour,  ma  sa^ur  ;  how  goes  your  patient  ? 
The  same  ?  No  worse,  no  better  ?  Ah  !  it  is  try- 
ing, this."  He  spoke  in  halting  yet  not  altogether 
bad  English,  knowing  that  the  nun's  command  of 
French  was  but  slight.  "  Look  here,  I  have  some 
word  to  say  to  you.  Have  you  found,  among  the 
lady's  possessions,  any  such  things  as  letters, 
papers,  hein  ?  " 


MJiS.    BARTLE    TEE  LING.  285 

"  I  have  not  looked,  monsieur,"  replied  Sister 
Gabrielle,  with  some  indignation. 

"  But  it  would  be  well  that  you  should  do  so," 
he  returned.  "  Look  here:  we  must  find  out  her 
friends — we  must  know  more." 

"  Do  you  know  nothing  of  them,  then  ?  "  ques- 
tioned the  sister,  opening  her  mild  blue  eyes  a  little 
wider  as  this  new  and  startling  fact  presented  it- 
self. 

''  Well,  it  is  this.  Of  course  when  she  first  be- 
came ill — before  you  came — I  examined  her  things, 
and  took  away  all  money,  and  jewelry,  and  any 
letters  I  could  find.  That  I  was  bound  to  do, 
naturally,  in  my  own  interest,"  he  added,  seeing 
that  the  nun  looked  somewhat  startled  at  his  an- 
nouncement; "  I  was  obliged  to  see  that  there  was 
some  money  forthcoming  for  the  expenses." 

"  Oh,  yes,  certainly  !  "  stammered  poor  Sister 
Gabrielle,  as  he  paused  and  looked  for  approbation. 

"  Well,  now,  the  money  which  I  found  has  come 
to  an  end.  I  looked  for  my  address,  to  which  to 
write,  among  her  papers,  and  found  one  only.  I 
wrote,  and  here  is  the  reply."  He  handed  an  open 
letter  to  the  nun.     It  ran  as  follows: 

"  Mrs.  Hillyard  begs  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  Monsieur 
Grosjean's  communication  with  respect  to  Miss  Falconer.  She 
encloses  a  post-office  order  for  ten  pounds  towards  the  ex- 
penses which  M.  Grosjean  may  have  incurred  and  at  the  same 
time  wishes  to  state  that  no  further  application  will  be  enter- 
tained. Any  letters  from  Miss  Falconer,  or  from  others  on 
her  behalf,  will  remain  unanswered." 


/ 
286  HER  LAST  STAKE. 

"  Voila  !  "  commented  the  proprietor,  as  Sister 
Gabrielle  folded  and  handed  him  back  the  letter. 
"  No  further  hope  in  that  quarter,  you  see." 

"  And  is  that  the  only  address  you  have  been 
able  to  find  ?  " 

"  Absolutely  the  only  one.  Now,  you  see,  this 
money  will  carry  us  on  for  a  few  days — my  own  ex- 
penses, I  mean,  nothing  more;  and  for  you,  ma 
sacur,  there  is  nothing;  I  wish  to  point  it  out  to 
you." 

"That  does  not  matter;  we  are  never  paid.  I 
mean  we  make  no  fixed  charge  ;  all  whom  we 
nurse,  rich  or  poor,  are  expected  to  make  some  of- 
fering to  the  convent,  according  to  their  means, 
and  the  offerings  of  the  rich  pay  for  the  expenses  of 
attending  on  the  poor." 

Still,  as  Sister  Gabrielle  so  bravely  explained  this, 
there  was  fading  from  her  mind  a  hopeful  little  vis- 
ion which  she  had  been  entertaining  all  this  time,  of 
her  own  triumphant  return  to  the  convent  home 
bearing  a  substantial  "  offering  "  from,  the  inmate 
of  one  of  the  biggest  and  grandest  hotels  in  the 
Riviera. 

"  Well,  we  must  await  the  course  of  events," 
sighed  M.  Grosjean  in  a  dissatisfied  fashion.  "  If 
the  lady  dies,  which  would  be  the  simplest  solu- 
tion of  the  difficulty,  I  shall  bury  her  with  this  " — 
waving  the  ten-pound  note  in  his  hand — "  ct  tout 
sera  dif.  If  she  lives — helas  I  there  will  be  a  long 
convalescence." 


MRS.   BARTLE    TEELING.  287 

"  Does  not  the  consul  sometimes  help  in  these 
cases  ?  "  suggested  the  nun. 

"  If  she  were  well,  he  could  have  her  conveyed 
back  to  England — as  a  pauper;  I  do  not  know  of 
anything  else  that  he  can  do.  However,  I  will  see. 
Meanwhile  please  see  if  you  can  find  any  letters  or 
papers  among  her  things  which  may  give  us  some 
clue  to  her  friends.     Bon  jour,  uia  SiViir." 

Sister  Gabrielle  went  back  to  the  little  north 
room  an  troisicmc  with  a  sad  heart;  and  as  she  ap- 
proached the  bed  to  administer  some  nourishment 
at  the  appointed  hour  a  thrill  of  pity  and  compas- 
sion came  to  her  as  she  passed  her  hand  under  the 
hot,  restless  head,  and  held  a  spoon  to  the  parched 
lips. 

"  Poor  thing  !  poor  thing  !  "  she  whispered  to 
herself.  "  Homeless  and  friendless — I  wonder 
why  ?  " 

As  if  the  w^ords  had  touched  some  chord  in  the 
sufiferer's  mind,  she  began  to  murmur  some  words, 
more  connectedly  than  any  the  nun  had  heard 
hitherto.  "  Why  ?  Why  ?  Who  knows  why  ? 
Was  it  my  system  ?  It  is  a  good  one,  yes  !  Yet 
listen:  Rouge  pcrd — perd  encore — ton  jours  le  rouge 
qui  perd — and  those  others,  they  win,  and  they  do 
not  need  it  as  I  do.  .  .  .  Which  do  yon  say  is  the 
lucky  man  ?  .  .  .  I  will  ask — him — to  give  me  a 

number — a   number "    and   her   voice   trailed 

away  again  into  silence. 

"I    suppose    she    has    been    to    that    dreadful 


288  HER   LAST  STAKE. 

Casino,"  innocently  thought  the  nun.  "  Will  she 
die,  I  wonder  ?  Perhaps  I  ought  to  say  something 
to  her  about  it,  if  a  gleam  of  consciousness  comes. 
It  is  useless  to  send  for  a  priest,  as,  no  doubt,  she  is 
a  Protestant.  Is  she,  though  ?  Well,  if  she  were 
a  Catholic  there  would  surely  be  something  to 
show  it — some  medal,  scapular — something." 

So,  seeing  that  her  patient  had  lapsed  into  quie- 
tude, she  set  to  work  to  empty  the  big  trunk  which, 
with  innate  delicacy,  she  had  hitherto  refrained 
from  touching,  though  M.  le  Proprictaire's  rough 
hands  had  already  tossed  and  tumbled  about  its 
contents.  Now,  knowing  that  for  its  owner's  sake 
it  was  incumbent  on  her  to  seek  information,  she 
carefully  examined  every  corner.  Dress  pockets, 
the  little  work-case,  an  empty  card-case,  two  or 
three  French  novels  of  the  usual  yellow-covered 
kind,  some  torn  sheets  of  paper  dotted  over  with 
figures,  the  meaning  of  which  Sister  Gabrielle  did 
not  fathom,  and  vaguely  supposed  them  to  be 
"  accounts,"  old  concert  programmes — was  there 
nothing  of  the  past  among  all  these  tumbled  heaps 
of  fine  linen  and  lace,  gloves  and  wraps,  mostly 
old  and  worn,  but  still  dainty  in  texture;  no  scrap 
of  identity  to  be  found  anywhere  ? 

As  she  pondered  and  puzzled  over  this  strange 
absence  of  any  clue  to  the  sick's  woman's  identity, 
which  she  began  to  think  must  be  intentional,  the 
feeble  voice  began  again  its  monotonous,  broken 
words. 


MES.    BARTLE    TEE  LING.  289 

"  It  is  only  life  that  can  fear  dying.  Possible  loss 
means  possible  gain — gain  ?  I  never  gain — it  is 
all  loss,  loss,  loss  !  " 

"  Could  I  not  reach  that  bewildered  brain  ?  " 
thought  Sister  Gabrielle,  rising  from  her  kneeling 
position  beside  the  trunk  and  going  over  to  the 
bed.  She  took  in  her  hands  the  crucifix  which 
hung  at  her  side  and  pressed  it  to  the  parched  lips 
of  the  sufferer,  whispering  in  low  tones  the  word 
"  Jesus."  To  her  surprise  the  touch  of  the  crucifix 
seemed  to  come  to  those  babbling  lips  as  a  familiar 
thing,  or  perchance  an  awakening  memory  ;  the 
fevered  hand  clasped  it  round,  and  the  murmuring 
voice  began  anew  :  "  Sacred  Heart — Heart  of 
Jesus — mercy  !  " 

*'  She  is  a  Catholic  !  "  said  Sister  Gabrielle  to 
herself,  speaking  aloud  in  her  astonishment.  "  No 
one  but  a  Catholic  would  say  that.  And  yet  no 
scapular,  no  medal,  no  slightest  token  of  religion 
anywhere.  Poor  soul  !  I  fear  she  has  forgotten 
God." 

Presently  she  gave  food  again,  and  noticed  after- 
wards that  the  patient  seemed  falling  into  a  stupor. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  who  came  in  shortly 
afterwards;  "  it  is  the  crisis.  If  she  awake  from 
this  stupor  she  will  be  saved." 

"  Otherwise  she  will  pass  away  in  it  ?  " 

"  Probably."  And  he  nodded  farewell  with  a 
cheery  air,  as  if  to  say  that  their  watching  would 
shortly  be  over. 


290  HER   LAST  STAKE. 

Sister  Gabrielle  sat  down  beside  the  bed  with 
an  anxious  heart;  doubly  so  now  that  she  guessed, 
or  fancied,  that  a  soul  was  there  before  her  which, 
with  all  its  sins  upon  it,  was  standing  very  near  to 
the  threshold  of  eternity.  She  took  up  her  rosary 
and  half  mechanically  began  to  say  it,  watching  the 
while  with  eager  eyes  lest  any  change  should  come. 
But  hours  passed  on,  and  the  long  night;  and  it 
was  not  until  the  morning  sun  was  pouring  its  full 
flood  of  radiance  through  the  unshaded  pane 
that  the  sick  woman  opened  her  large,  languid  eyes 
wearily,  but  with  full,  tired  consciousness,  upon  her 
watcher,  and  whispered  faintly,  "  Who  are  you  ?  " 


CHAPTER  III. 

So  the  crisis  had  passed  and  she  was  saved  ! 

Many  a  better  life,  to  all  human  seeming,  cher- 
ished and  watched  with  passionate  devotion,  might 
have  failed  to  struggle  through  the  hour  of  trial; 
but  this  woman,  whom  apparently  no  one  wanted, 
with  no  place  in  life  as  it  seemed,  no  means  even  of 
subsistence,  had  retained  her  hold  on  life  and  was 
now  slowly  but  surely  coming  back  to  strength, 
and — to  what  ?  Was  it,  as  Sister  Gabrielle 
thought  to  herself,  as  she  watched  her  patient, lying 
propped  up  by  pillows,  with  sad  and  troubled  eyes 
turned  towards  the  window,  hardly  speaking  save 
to  utter  a  brief  word  of  thanks  from  time  to  time 


MKS.    BARTLE    TEE  LING.  29 1 

for  services  rendered;  was  it  for  the  "  one  more 
grace "  so  often  given  that  she  had  been  thus 
brought  back  from  the  very  gates  of  death  ? 

One  often  wonders,  watching  beside  a  sick-bed 
or  mourning  some  irreparable  loss,  why,  where 
''  one  is  taken  and  the  other  left,"  an  Infinite 
Wisdom  seems  to  choose  those  whom  human  love 
and  human  needs  most  cling  to,  rather  than  those 
who,  like  the  sad-faced  patient,  seem  of  little  use. 
Perhaps,  like  the  subject  of  that  unconsciously 
bitter  remark  which  haunts  one  in  its  very  simplic- 
ity of  truth,  they  have  "  outlived  their  usefulness;  " 
as  was  said  of  some  old  woman,  a  mother  who  had 
toiled  all  her  life  out  for  children  and  home,  and 
now  was  no  longer  wanted  there — "  because, 
ma'am,"  said  one  for  whom  she  had  spent  herself 
in  youth,  "  she  is  of  no  more  use — she  has  outlived 
her  usefulness  !  " 

"  You  will  soon  be  able  to  get  up  now,"  said 
Sister  Gabrielle  encouragingly,  as  she  took  from 
the  patient's  hands  an  empty  cup  and  lowered  her 
pillow. 

"  Yes  ?  "  was  the  listless  answer. 

"  Do  you  not  care  to  recover  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  ?  "  And  the  dark  eyes  were 
turned  on  hers  with  an  unutterable  look  of  hope- 
lessness In  their  depths. 

The  sister  laid  one  hand  upon  the  thin,  trembling 
one  before  her,  as  she  said,  half-shyly,  lialf-gravely, 
but  very  earnestly:  "  Do  you  not  remember  that 


292  HER  LAST  STAKE. 

God  has  been  very,  very  good  to  you  in  letting  you 
live  ?  " 

"  Would  He  not  have  been  better  to  me  in  let- 
ting me  die  ?  "  returned  the  other  bitterly. 

"  Were  you  so  ready  to  die  then  ?  "  questioned 
the  nun,  half-fearing  her  own  temerity,  yet  longing 
to  speak  the  words  that  had  been  trembling  on  her 
lips  for  days.  "  You  are  a  Catholic — I  know  you 
are " 

"  How  did  you  guess  it  ?  "  broke  in  the  other 
sharply. 

"  You  told  me  yourself,  without  intending  it,  in 
your  delirium." 

"  Ah  !  that's  true — that  wretched  fever;  tell  me, 
did  I  say  anything  more — anything  about  my  past, 
about  myself  ?  " 

Sister  Gabrielle  shook  her  head. 

"  Nothing  that  I  could  understand.  But  what 
has  been  troubling  me  was — was — the  thought  that 
you  might  die  unprepared." 

"  Has  it  ?  You  poor,  good  little  nun  !  "  And 
the  dark  eyes  softened  for  a  moment  as  they  turned 
an  amused,  half-sarcastic  glance  upon  her.  "  You 
have  been  thinking  of  my  poor  soul,  have  you  ? 
Don't — it  is  not  worth  it  !  " 

"  Oh  !  do  not  say  that;  do  not  speak  so.  What 
would  have  become  of  you  if  you  had  died  ?  " 

The  sick  woman  turned  upon  her  pillow  to  look 
full  into  Sister  Gabrielle's  face. 

"  You  remind  me  of  a  little  pious  story  I  once 


MRS.    BARTLE    TEE  LING.  2g$ 

heard — I  wonder  whether  you  know  it  ?  Listen. 
Give  me  that  glass  of  water  at  your  side.  A  girl 
who  was — well,  not  a  very  good  girl — was  dying, 
and  the  friends  round  her  bed  spoke  to  her — well — 
as  you  want  to  talk  to  me.  One  of  them  asked  her 
*  where  she  thought  she  zvas  going  ?  '  She  dipped  her 
finger  in  some  water,  like  this  " — she  touched  the 
water  with  her  own — "  and  held  it  up  before  them 
all,  one  sparkling  drop  hanging  on  its  tip.  *  I  am 
going,'  she  said,  '  where  I  shall  call  in  vain  for  one 
drop  of  water  to  cool  my  burning  tongue.'  And  as 
she  spoke  the  words  she  fell  back  and  died  !  " 

Sister  Gabrielle  could  not  repress  a  shudder  at 
the  picture  thus  set  before  her;  but  she  quickly 
turned  the  subject  by  fetching  from  a  table  near  a 
cup  of  beef-tea  which  had  been  warmed  over  her 
little  spirit-lamp,  and  which  was  gratefully,  even 
eagerly,  consumed  by  the  patient. 

That  evening  she  was  again  summoned  to  M. 
Grosjean's  bureau. 

"  So  it  seems  that  your  patient  is  recovering  ?  " 
was  his  greeting  to  her. 

"  She  has  passed  the  crisis,  yes,  monsieur." 

"  Does  she  talk  ?  Does  she  tell  you  anything 
about  herself  ?  You  should  encourage  her  to  do 
so.  And  look  here,  ma  sccitr,  I  must  ask  you  to 
speak  to  her  about  money  matters  now — my  pay- 
ment ;  it  is  time  that  she  should  write  to  hed* 
friends,  if  she  has  any,  for  I  need  not  tell  you  that 
ten  pounds  has  very  nearly  come  to  an  end,  even 


/ 

I 

294  HE/?   LAST  STAKE. 

in  hotel  expenses;  and  how  the  doctor  will  be  paid, 
I  know  not." 

Poor  Sister  Gabrielle  !  She  felt  that  she  had 
never  in  all  her  life,  even  through  the  hardships  of 
her  two  years'  novitiate,  had  so  painful  a  task  to 
perform  as  on  the  following  morning,  when  she 
essayed  to  convey  the  message  of  M.  Grosjean  to 
her  patient.  Yet  she  had  but  few  words  to  say. 
"  I  understand,"  was  her  listener's  calm  comment, 
as  she  strove  to  convey,  as  delicately  as  possible, 
the  proprietor's  demand.  "  He  wants  to  be  paid — 
naturally.  And  I — I  have  nothing  to  pay  him 
with.  He  has  already  taken  all  that  was  here,  you 
say  ?  " 

"Everything  of  value  except  your  watch;  that 
is  here,"  answered  Sister  Gabrielle,  lifting  it  from 
the  mantel-piece  as  she  spoke. 

"  Ah,  that  is  well  !  Give  it  to  me  here,  please. 
I  ma}^  need  it  yet."  And  she  hid  it  carefully  be- 
neath her  pillow,  and  lay  back,  evidently  thinking 
painfully,  for  some  time. 

"  Will  you  get  me  some  paper,  and  a  pen  and 
ink,  please  ?  "  she  said  at  length  with  a  visible 
effort.  They  were  brought  to  her,  and  slowly, 
writing  evidently  with  as  much  mental  as  bodily 
pain,  she  traced  a  few  lines  on  two  separate  sheets 
of  paper,  and  placed  each  in  an  envelope,  which  she 
addressed. 

"  Will  you  ask  the  proprietor  to  stamp  these  and 
send  them  ?  "  she  asked. 


Mas.    BARTLE    TEE  LING.  29^ 

"  I  will  g-o  down  with  them  myself,"  said  the 
nun,  glad  to  show  that  her  mission  had  been  so  far 
successful.  And  she  ran  lightly  down  the  three 
long  flights  of  stairs  to  the  tiny  bureau  where  M. 
Grosjean  sat  all  day  long,  like  a  merry  spider  in  the 
centre  of  his  web. 

"  What  do  you  think  now  ?  "  he  exclaimed  as  he 
saw  her  ;  "  that  unfortunate  patient  of  yours  is 
destined  to  bring  me  nothing  but  misfortune.  Her 
opposite  neighbor  has  caught  the  fever  !  " 

*'  Dear  me,  that  is  dreadful  !  "  agreed  the  nun. 

"  I  think  the  doctor  wishes  to  ask  you  to  under- 
take the  case,"  went  on  ]\I.  Grosjean;  "you  see  it 
is  very  difficult  to  find  a  nurse  now  ;  there  is  so 
much  illness  about  that  they  are  all  engaged." 

"  My  present  patient  is  hardly  well  enough  to  be 
left  yet,"  objected  Sister  Gabrielle. 

"  She  will  have  to  be  left,  however,"  retorted  the 
proprietor,  "  for  I  do  not  intend  to  support  a  nurse 
for  her  any  longer.  It  is  hard  enough  for  me  to 
have  to  keep  her — which,  of  course,  I  shall  only  do 
until  she  is  well  enough  to  leave." 

Sister  Gabrielle  felt  somewhat  bewildered  and 
shocked  at  this  new  turn  that  things  were  taking. 
She  had  not  realized  before  that  her  very  presence 
there  was,  in  the  eyes  of  the  proprietor,  an  extra 
and  uncalled-for  expense,  added  to  the  burden 
which  poor  Miss  Falconer  was  already  felt  to  be. 
As  she  was  extremely  anxious  to  remain  near  her 
lonely  patient,  she  began  to  review  the  circum- 


296  HER  LAST  STAKE. 


Stances  in  her  mind,  and  to  wonder  whether  she 
might  venture  to  undertake  a  second  case  which, 
being  so  near  her  former  patient,  would  enable  her 
to  give  an  occasional  helping  hand  or  word  of  com- 
fort to  the  silent,  lonely  wo-man,  about  w^iom  there 
hung  an  air  of  mystery  and  sorrow. 

"  Who  is  the  new  sufferer  ?  "  asked  she,  after  a 
pause. 

"  A  young  gentleman  who,  with  his  bride,  is  here 
on  their  wedding  tour,"  was  the  reply.  "  The  lady 
is  not  strong  enough  to  nurse  him  alone,  and  the 
present  epidemic  of  influenza  has  taken  away  all 
the  nurses.  I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would 
stay,  since  you  are  already  familiar  with  the  situa- 
tion, and  do  not  fear  infection." 

So  the  end  of  it  was  that  Sister  Gabrielle  found 
herself  transferred  to  the  opposite  room — a  large, 
sunny  south  one,  under  strict  injunctions  not  to 
divulge  the  nature  of  the  illness  which  she  had 
lately  tended,  as  well  as  to  take  every  precaution  to 
isolate  and  disinfect  the  sick-room.  Her  patient, 
a  tall,  fair  young  man,  of  some  five-and-twenty 
years,  seemed  much  less  seriously  afifected  than  was 
the  case  with  Miss  Falconer,  and  had  the  advantage 
of  every  appliance  and  comfort  that  money — and 
the  drugs  from  a  fashionable  English  pharmacy — 
could  bestow.  The  room  was  shut  in  by  carbolized 
sheets;  one  leading  to  the  corridor,  and  one  to  the 
bedroom  adjoining  where  his  young  wife  remained, 


JWKS.    BARTLE    TEE  LING.  297 

Sister  Gabrielle  whispering  bulletins  from  time  to 
time  of  his  progress. 

Every  morning  about  nine  o'clock — before  en- 
tering upon  his  usual  round  of  visits — the  doctor, 
one  of  the  fashionable  English  physicians  of  the 
place,  would  make  his  appearance  by  the  bedside, 
and,  cautiously  pulling  up  his  sleeve,  touch  with 
two  timid  fingers  the  sick  man's  pulse. 

"  Fever  slackening  ?  Ah,  yes  !  That  is  right  ! 
Tongue,  please  ?  "  and  tiptoeing  as  far  as  possible 
from  the  reach  of  infected  breath,  he  would  cast  a 
hasty  glance  at  that  member. 

"  Now,  nurse,  the  carbolic  !  "  And  a  vigorous 
application  of  carbolic  soap  to  his  hands  would  fol- 
low before  with  nervous  haste  he  nodded  farewell 
to  his  patient,  and  retired  outside  to  continue  his 
directions  in  the  corridor.  "  Open  the  window, 
please,  there  !  Ah  !  everything  is  going  on  well, 
I  think,  nurse  ?  " 

"  Quite  well,  yes." 

"We  can  do  no  better  than  continue  present 
treatment — er — trust  to  nature  to — er — restore 
vitality.  (I  beg  your  pardon,  nurse,  but  will  you 
keep  on  the  other  side  of  the  current  of  air,  letting  it 
pass  from  me  to  you,  do  you  see  ?  ") 

"  You  are  rather  nervous  about  infection,  I 
think  ?  "  remarked  Sister  Gabrielle  one  day,  tired 
of  his  endless  fidgety  precautions. 

"  Well,  you  see  " — he  was  a  pompous  little  man 


298  HER  LAST  STAKE. 

and  talked  in  a  consequential  tone  very  irritating 
to  the  bystander — "  I  must  consider  my  other  pa- 
tients. I  have  important  cases  on  hand — most  im- 
portant. I  am  at  present  attending  the  Duchess  of 
Oxford's  little  boy  with  measles,  and  it  is  a  re- 
sponsible position — most  responsible  !  " 

"  But  your  passing  through  the  fresh  air  carries 
off  any  harmful  possibilities,  surely  ?  "  urged  she. 

"  Ah  !  infection  is  a  subtle  thing,"  he  rejoined, 
dolefully  shaking  his  head.  "  One  may  catch  dis- 
ease anywhere — cabs,  railway  carriages,  narrow 
streets — all  these  are  so  many  traps  for  the  unwarv. 
I  assure  you,  nurse,  when  my  wife  and  I  go  to 
England  from  here  we  carefully  abstain  as  far  as 
possible  from  touching  the  sides  of  the  railway  car- 
riage, and  never,  never  lean  back  in  it  !  There  is 
nothing  more  you  would  wish  to  ask  with  reference 
to  the  patient,  is  there?  " 

This  was  a  delicate  hint,  repeated  each  morning, 
intended  to  convey  the  fact  that  the  good  man  w^as 
ready  for  his  fee,  which,  to  avoid  any  misunder- 
standing, he  preferred  to  pocket  at  the  close  of 
each  visit;  and  accordingly  Sister  Gabrielle  would 
disappear  for  a  moment  into  the  adjoining  room, 
and  come  out  with  the  regulation  twenty-franc 
piece  in  her  hand. 

"  Good  morning  !  "  And  Sister  Gabrielle  would 
retire  behind  her  protecting  sheet,  and  nurse  her 
patient  by  the  light  of  her  own  judgment  for  the 
next  twenty-four  hours. 


MRS.    BARTLF    TEE  LING.  299 

Sometimes,  when  he  was  asleep  and  she  knew 
that  she  could  leave  him  safely,  she  would  go 
quietly  out,  and  steal  into  the  dull  little  back  room 
where  Marion  Falconer  sat  day  after  day  in  a 
broken  arm-chair,  essaying  her  strength  by  pacing 
slowly  and  painfully  from  chair  to  bed  and  bed  to 
window,  gazing  out  wdth  large  and  melancholy 
eyes  upon  the  changeful  hues  of  the  mountain  be- 
yond and  the  cleft  valley,  whence  a  snow-swollen 
rivulet  trickled  downwards  to  the  sea  ;  the  only 
breaks  in  the  monotony  of  these  long,  dreary  hours 
being  the  infrequent  trays  of  comfortless  meals, 
thrust  into  the  doorway  by  a  hasty  hand,  and  a  few 
moments'  chat  with  her  former  nurse.  The  doctor 
had  ceased  his  visits,  having  pronounced  her  out  of 
danger,  and,  perchance,  perceiving  small  chance  of 
obtaining  his  fee.  Every  day  when  Sister  Gabrielle 
entered  she  would  turn  her  wistful  looks  towards 
the  doorway,  with  "  Are  the  letters  come,  do  you 
know  ?     No  letter  for  me,  sister  ?  " 

And  Sister  Gabrielle  would  shake  her  head,  with 
some  hopeful  word  which  indeed  she  hardly  felt. 
But  the  silent,  almost  awful  reserve  which  encased 
the  sick  woman  was  a  barrier  which  few,  and  cer- 
tainly not  that  timid  little  nun,  could  break 
through.  She  would  hover  round  her  wistfully, 
and  glance  at  her  with  shy,  appealing  looks  as  she 
talked  in  broken  sentences  of  unimportant  matters, 
longing  all  the  time  to  speak  to  her  of  what  in  very 
truth  she  was  zvaiting  to  say — but  waiting  in  vain. 


30O  HER  LAST  STAKE. 

"  Is  there  any  English  confessor  here,  I  won- 
der ?  "  she  suggested  one  day  as  an  opening  for 
conversation.  "  Or  perhaps  you  go  to  confession 
in  French  ?  " 

"  Or  perhaps  not  at  all  ?  "  suggested  her  ques- 
tioner, with  a  faintly  ironical  smile. 

•'  Would  you  not  like  to  see  a  priest,  after — hav- 
ing been  in  such  danger  of  death  ?  " 

"  I  ?  Oh,  no,  not  at  all.  Besides,  I  thought 
the  danger  was  past  ?  " 

"  The  more  reason  you  have  for  gratitude,"  re- 
turned Sister  Gabrielle  quickly,  glad  even  of  this 
slight  opening  for  speaking  out  her  heart. 

"  This  is  a  great  deal  to  be  grateful  for,  is  it 
not  ?  "  spoke  Marion  Falconer,  with  a  quick  little 
sweep  of  her  hand  round  the  bare  room. 

"  Life  is  a  great  thing  to  be  grateful  for,"  she 
answered,  "  and  the  future  lies  in  your  own  power." 

"  The  future  ?  "  For  once  ]\Iiss  Falconer's  indif- 
ferent reserve  seemed  broken  through,  as  she  rose 
and  paced  with  weak,  uncertain  steps  about  the 
room.  "  What  is  my  future,  do  you  think  ?  Oh, 
you  poor  little  innocent,  ignorant  soul  !  do  you 
know  what  my  life  is — what  my  future  is  ?  Look 
at  me  !  Have  I  a  friend  in  the  world  ?  Is  there 
one  single  hand  that  I  can  grasp  or  cling  to  for 
help,  in  all  the  universe  ?  Have  I  an  acquaintance 
even  who  would  not,  if  they  heard  of  my  death  to- 
night, say,  '  What  a  mercy  that  she  is  gone  '  ? 
Look  !     I  am  waiting — waiting  in  a  sick  despair — • 


3IJiS.    BARTLE    TEE  LING.  301 

to  answers  to  my  last  appeals  for  help;  and  they 
will  not  come — I  know  that  !  And  by-and-by, 
when  I  am  a  little  stronger,  or  the  landlord  is  a  lit- 
tle more  tired  of  waiting  for  the  money  that  never 
comes,  I  shall  be  politely  told  to  go,  and  leave  my 
worldly  goods  behind  me — such  as  they  are,"  she 
added  with  a  dreary  little  laugh  ;  "  and  then — 
when  I  walk  away  from  this  door — what  do  you 
propose  that  I  should  do  then  ?  " 

Sister  Gabrielle  was  silent. 

"  What  is  left  to  me  but  to  do  what  the  fever 
failed  to  do  ?  I  am  thinking  over  it,  every  day  as  I 
sit  here,  trying  to  decide  how  it  is  to  be.  Will  it  be 
poison  ?  That  is  very  painful — and  besides,  I  shall 
have  no  hole  of  shelter  to  crawl  into  to  die;  one 
can't  die  out  in  the  open  street.  Will  it  be  the  sea? 
I  don't  like  the  sea;  it  is  shallow  and  difficult  to 
reach,  and  one  is  ignominiously  rescued.  I  am  not 
a  man,  and  I  have  not  the  stereotyped  revolver  of 
Monte  Carlo  usage;  so " 

"  Oh,  please  !  "  gasped  Sister  Gabrielle,  "  don't 
talk  like  that.    I  know  you  don't  mean  it,  but " 

"  Not  mean  it  ?  "  returned  the  other  with  a  grim 
little  smile,  which  somehow  carried  conviction  with 
it.  "  Well,  I  hope  the  proprietor  will  '  not  mean 
it '  when  he  turns  me  out  into  the  streets,  in  a  day 
or  two.  Perhaps  you  will  kindly  make  that  remark 
to  him  ?  " 

Sister  Gabrielle  stood  dumbly  looking  at  her  for 
a  moment,  feeling  as  if  no  words  were  adequate  to 


302  HER  LAST  STAKE. 

touch  that  profound  despair.  Suddenly  her  hand, 
moving  mechanically  downwards,  encountered  the 
rosary  at  her  side,  and  with  an  impulsive  movement 
she  unfastened  and  laid  it  upon  Miss  Falconer's 
Jap;  then,  putting  both  arms  round  her  neck,  she 
kissed  the  unresponsive  cheek;  and  turning,  hur- 
ried from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

In  very  truth  Sister  Gabrielle  did  not  in  the 
least  guess  at  her  former  patient's  past  or  even 
present  life.  The  ravings  of  fever,  the  pencil  notes 
and  jottings  lying  here  and  there,  every  indication 
which  would  have  enlightened  a  more  ''  worldly  " 
person,  passed  by  her  unnoticed  and  uncompre- 
hended.  All  that  she  did  take  in,  however,  of  the 
poor  wanderer's  pitiful  and  solitary  state  made  her 
yearn,  with  the  tenderness  of  a  true  womanly  soul, 
over  that  forlorn  one  to  whom  by  some  mysteri- 
ous overruling  of  Divine  Mercy  she  had  been 
brought  to  minister.  In  after  years  she  used  to 
say  that  she  had  never  realized  until  then  the  terri- 
ble inequality  of  rich  and  poor  against  which  so 
many  thousands  have  impotently  and  wrongly 
rebelled.  In  one  room  sunshine,  and  comfort,  and 
love — all  combining  to  make  human  suffering  light 
— in  the  other  poverty,  want,  despair;  within  a 
stone's  throw,  each  to  each.     And  in  both  rooms 


MJiS.  BARTLE    TEELING.  303 

the  same  great,  underlying  need  which,  if  supphed, 
would  have  enriched  and  ennobled  both — the  same 
lack  of  faith  and  God. 

The  mission  of  those  who  have  devoted  their 
lives  to  the  service  of  the  sick  and  dying  is,  with- 
out doubt,  primarily  the  healing  of  the  body;  but 
there  is  surely  with  them  also  an  underlying  apos- 
tolate  of  ministration  to  souls.  Among  the  poor 
this  work  is  ostensible,  almost  easy,  we  would  say. 
With  patients  of  the  upper  class  it  is  hardly  less 
needful,  and  requires  far  more  tact,  delicacy,  and 
courage  for  its  exercise.  If  all  were  known,  there 
have  been  not  a  few  conversions  from  heresy  as 
well  as  those  from  indifference  and  sin,  wrought 
by  the  ministrations  of  a  '*  nursing  sister;"  and  even 
those  who  seem  to  reap  but  Httle  benefit  from  the 
spiritual  side  of  their  ministration,  are  loud  in 
praise  of  its  temporal  advantages. 

The  second  patient  whom  Sister  Gabrielle  had 
been  called  to  tend  was  a  big.  light-hearted,  mus- 
cular young  Englishman  who,  when  his  time  of 
convalescence  began,  seemed  to  live  in  a  perpetual 
state  of  half-amused  annoyance  at  the  untoward 
illness  which,  for  the  first  time  in  his  cheery,  irre- 
sponsible life,  had  come  upon  him.  "  Queer,  isn't 
it  ?  to  feel  so  weak,"  he  would  ejaculate,  lifting  a 
feeble  hand  and  arm  into  the  air  and  pinching  its 
softened  muscles  amazedly.  "  How  much  longer 
is  this  sort  of  thing  going  to  last  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  you  will  soon  be  sitting  up  by  the  fire  if 


304  HER  LAST  STAKE. 

you  go  on  as  you  are  doing,"  the  sister  would  as- 
sure him. 

"  Yes,  and  then  begin  to  crawl  out-of-doors, 
wrapped  up  in  shawls,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  poor 
creatures  Minnie  and  I  used  to  laugh  at  !  "  he  con- 
tinued. "  The  idea  of  my  being  laid  by  the  heels 
in  this  wretched  place,  where  three-quarters  of  the 
people  are  consumptives,  and  the  fourth  Monte 
Carloites  ! " 

"  What,  do  you  mean  gamblers  ?  "  ejaculated 
Sister  Gabrielle  with  awe.  "  Are  there  any  of  those 
here  ?     Not  in  this  hotel,  surely  ?  " 

"  Well — I  should  think  you  might  tell  that  better 
than  most  !  " 

"  I  ?  " 

"  Considering  that  you  have  been  nursing  one  of 
them — have  you  not  ?  " 

"  You  don't  mean "  and  then  all  at  once  a 

light  broke  upon  her  bewildered  brain,  and  she  un- 
derstood the  meaning  of  her  perplexities. 

"That  lady  opposite,  whom  you  nursed;  she  is 
one  of  the  regular  old  stagers — frequenters  of  *  the 
tables,'  you  know." 

"  I  did  not  know  it.     How  did  you  ?  " 

"  They  told  me  down-stairs — the  landlord,  I 
think.  I  declare  I  should  like  to  make  her  ac- 
quaintance, and  get  her  to  teach  me  the  ins  and 
outs  of  these  wonderful  '  systems  '  they  talk  so 
much  about.     Don't  seem  to  have  done  much  for 


3IKS.    BARTLE    TEE  LING.  $05 

her,  though,  do  they  ?     I  heard  she  was  just  about 
cleaned  out  !  " 

**  I'm  afraid  she  is,"  answered  Sister  Gabrielle 
gravely.  And  her  thoughts  went  off  again  to  the 
problem  which  was  exercising  them  night  and  day; 
how  to  help  that  soul  which  lay  at  her  door,  as  it 
were,  in  sore  need  of  rescue. 

"  Can  you  spare  me  for  half  an  hour,  do  you 
think,  to  go  into  the  town  ?  "  she  asked  of  her  pa- 
tient. 

"  Oh,  dear,  yes  !  by  all  means,  nurse.  And  you 
might  get  me  some  papers  at  the  same  time." 

So  she  hurried  off;  for  a  thought  had  come  to 
her  of  the  way  to  continue  her  apostolate  of  souls. 
Her  destination  was  a  well-stocked  "'  libmiric."  or 
book-shop,  which  she  had  noticed  once  before,  as 
announcing  itself  to  speak  English  and  provide  the 
newest  English  books. 

"  Do  you  sell  rosaries  ?  "  she  asked  them;  but 
they  only  stared  in  perplexity,  and  showed  her  a 
variety  of  objects,  from  penholders  to  artificial 
flowers. 

"  Rosaries — '  chaplets,'  "  she  insisted,  and  could 
not  show  them  her  own,  because  she  had  left  it  on 
Marion  Falconer's  lap. 

"  Madame  deniande  iin  chaplet,"  explained  the 
shop-boy,  retiring  to  giggle  with  his  confrere  at 
the  back  of  the  counter. 

"  No,  we  do  not  sell  '  des  ohjcts  rdigieux'  "  ex- 
plained the  master,  coming  forward. 


306  HER   LAST  STAKE. 

"  Where  can  I  find  some  ?  " 

"  Ma  foi  !  je  ne  sais  pas.  Perhaps  up  in  the  old 
town — not  here." 

No,  not  there.  Not  where  tJic  English  church, 
with  its  parsonage  and  garden;  EngHsh-speaking 
shops  which  '  closed  on  Sundays,'  and  held  no- 
tices of  every  variety  of  Protestant  service;  where 
the  English  influence  and  English  religion  were 
paramount,  and  Catholicism  a  thing  of  the  people, 
a  superstition  of  the  aborigines,  to  be  sneered  at 
like  Hinduism  in  India,  and  its  attributes  kept  well 
out  of  sight. 

So  she  left  the  fashionable  quarter — the  Mentone 
as  it  is  known  to  the  world  of  to-day — and  toiled 
up  a  steep  litle  dingy  street  to  the  vicinity  of  the 
parish  church,  where,  after  some  difficulty,  in  an 
odd  little  shop,  which  sold  wools  and  gloves  and  a 
few  fly-blown  old  religious  pictures,  she  succeeded 
in  finding  the  object  of  her  search. 

"  I  am  later  out  than  I  expected  to  be,"  she  ex- 
plained as  she  made  her  reappearance,  rather 
breathless  and  tired,  in  her  patient's  room.  "  I 
could  not  find  what  I  wanted  except  in  the  old 
town.  And  now,  when  I  have  made  you  comfort- 
able, may  I  leave  you  again  for  a  few  minutes  ?  " 

And  soon  she  was  knocking  at  the  door  of  Miss 
Falconer's  room. 

By  this  time,  it  should  be  said,  Marion  Falconer 
had  sufficiently  recovered  strength  to  be  able  to 
put  on  her  walking  things  each  morning,  and  creep 


MRS.    BARTLE    TEE  LING.  307 

slowly  down-Stairs  and  out  into  the  bright,  warm 
sunshine.  Sister  Gabriclle  had  managed  to  dis- 
infect her  room,  and  she  was  only  deterred  from 
taking  her  place  with  the  rest  of  the  world  down' 
stairs  by  the  dread  of  receiving  her  sentence  of  dis- 
missal from  the  landlord.  So  that  on  this  still, 
w^arm  and  sunny  afternoon  Sister  Gabrielle  was  not 
surprised  to  find  her  standing  before  the  tall  gilt 
mirror  over  the  mantel-piece  arranging  her  bonnet 
and  veil  to  go  out. 

"  I  have  come  to  redeem  my  rosary — by  bring- 
ing you  another,"  said  the  nun,  smiling  brightly  as 
she  entered;  "you  will  not  mind  my  giving  you 
one,  will  you  ?  For  as  I  have  not  seen  one  among 
your  possessions  I  fancy  you  must  have  lost  yours." 

"  I  have  indeed  lost  it — many  years  since,"  re- 
plied Miss  Falconer,  with  a  wan  little  smile,  as  she 
turned  from  the  glass  and  took  the  sister's  two  out- 
stretched hands  in  hers  with  a  sort  of  grave  tender- 
ness with  which  she  now  always  received  her. 
"  You  are  very  good  to  think  of  it — and  of  me,  as 
you  do." 

"  It  is  a  poor,  commonplace  little  one,"  said  the 
former  speaker;  "  only  for  your  use  until  you  have 
a  better  one."  And  she  placed  a  small  red  rosary 
in  the  other's  palm. 

"  Red  !  Rouge  gagne  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Falconer, 
almost  gayly,  as  she  took  it.  "  Is  it  an  omen — • 
may  I  take  it  so,  I  wonder  ?  "  Then,  seeing  the 
shocked  look  on  Sister  Gabrielle's  face  :     "  Oh  ! 


308  HER  LAST  STAKE. 

I  horrify  you,  I  know,  dear  sister.  I  cannot  help 
it;  all  my  thoughts  turn  one  way  !  Will  it  please 
you  better  if  I  tell  you  that  I  actually  used  your 
rosary  last  night  ?  " 

"  Yes  indeed,  I  am  glad.  But  do  not  let  me 
keep  you  now;  you  are  going  out." 

A  shade  fell  over  the  transient  brightness  of 
Marion  Falconer's  face  as  these  words  recalled  her 
to  herself.  "  Yes,  I  am  going  out,"  she  said,  "  and 
you  will  not  like  to  hear  where  !  " 

"  Tell  me." 

"  In  the  first  place,  the  sentence  has  been  pro- 
nounced; the  landlord  informed  me  this  morning 
that  I  must  leave  to-morrow." 

"  Oh  !  "  gasped  Sister  Gabrielle,  "  what  will  you 
do?" 

"  I  am  going  to  try  one  last  chance — one  last 
throw  for  fortune." 

'*  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Listen.  I  pawned  my  watch  this  morning,  and 
got  this  for  it,"  showing  some  gold-pieces  in  her 
worn,  shabby  purse.  "  With  this  I  am  going,  for 
the  last  time,  to  Monte  Carlo." 

"  Oh,  don't  !  "  broke  in  her  listener. 

"  I  shall  stake  it  all — in  a  way  that  will  double, 
treble  itself,  if  it  wins;  and  if  I  win  I  promise  you  I 
will  play  no  more;  yes,  I  know  that  is  what  you 
are  asking  me.  I  shall  have  enough  then  to  sup- 
port myself  for  a  few  days  while  gaining  more 
strength  to  seek  employment." 


MKS.    BARTLE    TEE  LING.  3^9 

"  And  if  you  lose  ?  " 

"  Then — don't  ask  !  "  she  answered  abruptly. 

"  But — but  why  not  live  for  those  few  days  on 
v/hat  you  have  there  ?  " 

"  Because  I  must,  must,  must  have  one  throw 
more  !  I  cannot  help  it,  the  madness  of  it  is  upon 
me;  you  cannot  understand  the  irresistibleness  of 
the  temptation." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  resisting  grace,"  said  Sis- 
ter Gabrielle  sadly. 

"  Don't  say  that,  but  wish  me  good  luck  ! 
There  !  Good-by — and — and — pray  for  me  !  "  She 
bent  down  and  kissed  the  cheek  of  her  new-found 
friend,  and  taking  up  the  long-handled  sunshade, 
with  which  she  supported  her  still  somewhat  un- 
certain footsteps,  she  quitted  the  room.  Sister 
Gabrielle  took  up  her  own  large  rosary,  which  lay 
upon  the  table  near,  and  knelt  down  to  say  a  por- 
tion of  it  "  for  that  soul  which  is  in  danger  of  los- 
ing grace,"  as  she  whispered,  before  she  left,  with 
slow  and  saddened  steps,  that  dull  and  cheerless 
room. 


CHAPTER  V. 

It  was  somewhat  early  on  the  following  morning 
— perhaps  about  eight  o'clock  or  so — that  Sister 
Gabrielle,  coming  for  a  moment  out  into  the 
corridor  into  which  all  the  rooms  opened,  found 
herself  face  to  face  with,  almost  knocking  against,  in 


310  HER  LAST  STAKE. 

fact,  a  little  group  of  men  who  were  entering  the 
room  in  front  of  her,  No.  27.  "  Why,  that  is  Miss 
Falconer's  room,"  she  thought;  ''surely  that  un- 
feeling landlord  has  not  turned  her  out  already  !  " 

In  another  moment  the  identical  individual  him- 
self appeared,  his  usually  smiling  appearance  hav- 
ing given  place  to  one  of  grave  concern;  and,  with- 
out noticing  the  looker-on,  he  passed  her  and  went 
after  the  others  into  the  room.  A  vague  feeling  of 
uneasy  surprise  drew  Sister  Gabrielle  to  linger  just 
Vvathin  the  doorway  of  the  room  she  had  quitted 
and  now  re-entered,  with  some  faint  idea  of  catch- 
ing and  interpellating  the  landlord  at  his  exit. 
Presently  they  came  out,  talking  low,  and  still  not 
observing  her;  and  she  heard  M.  Grosjean  address 
the  foremost  gentleman,  a  quiet-looking,  elderly 
Englishman,  as  "  Monsieur  le  Consul."  Presently, 
much  to  her  surprise,  she  saw  them  close  and  lock 
the  door,  and  a  young  man,  who  acted  as  the  con- 
sul's aide  or  secretary,  proceeded  to  affix  seals  to  it 
in  a  very  business-like  manner,  while  his  superior 
slowly  paced  up  and  down  the  corridor  conversing 
in  a  low  voice  with  the  landlord.  When  the  official 
seals  were  duly  affixed  they  departed,  and  silence 
again  reigned  throughout  the  place. 

Sister  Gabrielle  went  back  into  the  room  and 
rang  the  bell  once,  twice,  for  the  icmmc  dc  chainhrc; 
then  came  outside  to  avoid  speaking  in  the  in- 
valid's room. 

"  Did  you  ring  for  hot  water  ?     Here  it  is,  ma 


MRS.    BARTLE    TEELING.  3II 

smir  ! "  said  the  lively  chambermaid,  whose  ser- 
vices had  considerably  improved  in  attentivencss 
since  Sister  Gabrielle  had  begun  to  require  them  on 
behalf  of  a  rich  Englishman  instead  of  a  lonely 
and  impecunious  "  demoiselle." 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?  "  whispered  the  nun, 
pointing  to  the  sealed-up  door. 

"  Ah,  yes  !     It  is  dreadful,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know;  what  is  it  ?  What  has  hap- 
pened ?  "  almost  gasped  her  listener. 

"  Quoi,  voiis  lie  saves  pas  ?  She  is  dead,  that 
lady  who  was  there." 

"  Dead  ?  " 

The  girl  nodded.  "  Some  accident,  I  do  not 
know  what  it  was  rightly.  Some  say,  indeed,  that 
she  destroyed  herself.  Anyhow  she  was  to  have 
left  to-day,  and  now — vo'ila  I  Are  you  ready  for 
the  coffee  yet  ?  " 

"  Yes — no — I  mean  yes,  bring  it,"  said  Sister 
Gabrielle  confusedly,  her  eyes  still  fixed  upon  the 
two  great  splotches  of  red  wax,  stamped  with  the 
English  arms,  which  seemed  to  grow  larger  and 
larger  before  her  eyes.  And  then  she  had  to  con- 
trol herself  and  go  in  and  attend  upon  her  invalid, 
who  was  very  vivacious,  and  talked  of  going  for  a 
drive,  and  getting  disinfected,  and  casting  aside 
this  horrid  old  fever.  And  then,  for  the  first  time, 
she  found  herself  hailing  with  positive  pleasure  the 
doctor's  well-known  tap  at  the  door,  listened  pa- 
tiently to  the  scraps  of  chat  and  questions  of  news 


312  HER   LAST  STAKE. 

with  which  the  patient  pHed  him,  as  the  only  repre- 
sentative of  the  outside  world  whom  he  could  at 
present  reach,  and  followed  him  as  sedately,  to  all 
outward  appearance,  from  the  room  as  on  any 
other  ocasion. 

Ah  !  "  he  exclaimed,  as  on  closing  the  door  be- 
hind him  he  caught  sight  of  the  red  seals  opposite, 
"  that  is  the  room,  is  it  ?     Sad  business,  eh  ?  " 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is,  please;  I  do  not  quite  under- 
stand what  has  happened.  Have  you  heard  it 
all  ?  " 

"  Just  met  the  consul  as  I  was  coming  up  here, 
and  he  told  me.  Some  lady,  one  of  those  regular 
Monte  Carlo  people  who  come  to  stay  here  and  go 
up  every  day  to  *  the  tables.'  " 

"  To — to  gamble,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  roulette  and  rouge  et  noir,  and  so  forth, 
you  know.  The  sort  of  people  who  go  in  for  it  as  a 
profession,  a  means  of  livelihood,  you  know." 

"  Yes— well  ?  " 

"  Well,  this  person  it  appears  used  to  go  up  there 
every  day  (only  she  had  been  ill  lately  and  had  not 
gone),  and  yesterday  evening,  as  she  was  returning 
home,  on  arriving  at  the  station  and  alighting  from 
the  train  she — well  they  don't  know  whether  acci- 
dentally or  on  purpose,  but  at  all  events  she  got  en- 
tangled as  the  train  was  moving  on — and  killed." 

An  exclamation  of  horror  broke,  involuntarily, 
from  the  lips  of  the  nun.  The  doctor  suddenly 
turned  and  faced  her. 


MKS.    BARTLE    TEELING.  3 13 

"  Why — why — wasn't  that  the  very  woman  you 
were  nursing  before  you  took  my  patient — the  first 
case,  from  whom  he  was  supposed  to  have  caught 
the  fever  ?  " 

She  nodded,  unable  for  a  moment  to  speak. 

"  Then,  bless  my  soul  !  you'll  be  wanted  at  the 
inquest  most  likely.  They  are  trying  in  vain  to 
find  out  anything  about  her — who  she  was — her 
relatives,  friends,  anything.  I  must  remind  the 
consul  ! " 

"  Oh,  pray,  pray,  don't  !  "  breathed  the  nun,  to 
whom  the  word  "  inquest  "  meant  unutteraljle  hor- 
rors, 

"  But  you  must,  you  know  !  "  he  persisted.  "  I 
suppose  you  know  all  about  her  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  know  nothing,  nothing.  Ask  the 
landlord  if  I  am  not  fully  as  ignorant  as  himself." 

"  Oh  !  well,  excuse  me,  but  that's  not  pos- 
sible. You  who  were  with  her,  night  and  day,  for 
weeks — at  all  events,  I  shall  tell  the  consul  !  " 
And,  full  of  importance,  he  hurried  away  down  the 
stairs,  and  she  heard  his  footsteps  die  away  in  the 
distance. 

An  hour  or  two  passed,  and  she  went  about  her 
work  as  usual,  with  a  sickening  horror  at  her  heart 
and  a  dreary  longing  to  hear  more  of  the  tragedy 
which  lay,  as  it  were,  at  their  door.  Then  a  tap 
and  a  whispered  summons  came,  and  she  found 
herself  standing  before  M.  Grosjean  beside  the  still 
sealed  door. 


314  HER  LAST  STAKE. 

"  You  know  what  has  happened  ?  "  he  said  to 
her  very  gravely.  "  Can  you  tell  us  anything 
about — her;  anything  which  may  be  of  use  at  the 
inquest  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  You  know  that  I  never 
heard  anything  of  her  past  or  of  her  friends;  you 
asked  me  that  before." 

"  When  did  you  see  her  last  ?  " 

"  Yesterday." 

"  Morning  or  afternoon  ?  " 

"  Afternoon.  I  went  in  to  see  her,  and  found 
her  dressed  to  go  out.  She  went  while  I  was 
there." 

"  So  you  were  almost  the  last  person  to  speak  to 
her,  hereabouts  at  least.  Well,  how  did  she 
seem  ?  " 

"  Much  as  usual.  Perhaps  rather  brighter  than 
usual." 

"  Did  she  tell  you  that  I  had  given  her  notice  to 
leave  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  What  did  she  say  about  it  ?  " 

"  She  said  that  she  was  going  to  '  try  her  luck  * 
once  more," 

"  And  did  she  say  what  she  would  do  if  she 
lost  ?  " 

"  No."  Thankful  Indeed  was  Sister  Gabrielle  to 
be  able  to  speak  that  "  no."  She  knew  what  was 
the  underlying  thought  in  the  questioner's  mind, 
the  scarcely  defined  dread  in  her  own;  and  there 


MRS.    BARTLE    TEE  LING.  315 

rose  up  in  her  mind  a  wild  desire  to  combat  that 
suspicion. 

''  Well,  you  can  tell  me  nothing  more  ?  "  ques- 
tioned M.  Grosjean.  "  It  is  very  perplexing.  One 
does  not  know  what  to  do.  The  consul  has  tele- 
graphed to  the  lady  who  wrote  once  before — you 
remem1)er  ?     The  only  address  we  have." 

"  You — they  will  not  want  to  question  me — 
elsewhere,  will  they  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  not,  unless  the  consul  wishes  to 
see  you." 

"  Do  tell  me,  please  " — she  hesitated  as  to  how 
to  word  her  inquiry — "  how  do  they  think  it  hap- 
pened ?  " 

"  They  say  that  either  she  missed  her  footing 

and  fell  under  the  carriage,  or "  he  shrugged 

his  shoulders  with  a  significant  gesture. 

''  She  fell  down,  I  am  sure  of  it  !  "  responded  the 
nun  eagerly;  "you  know  she  was  still  very,  very 
weak  from  her  illness;  I  have  often  seen  her  stum- 
ble in  going  up-stairs. 

"  Ha  !  yes,  that  is  true.  I  must  tell  them  that  ! 
You  see,  it  is  very  disagreeable  for  me;  people  say- 
ing that  she  was  in  despair — that — that  I  was  hard 
upon  her,  in  fact.  I  do  not  think  so;  do  you  ?  I 
really  could  not  keep  her  forever." 

"  No,"  said  his  hearer  mechanically;  and  within 
herself  she  was  thinking,  "  one  cannot  expect  a 
hotel-keeper  to  be  merciful  ;    but  what  an  awful, 


3l6  HER   LAST  STAKE. 

awful  thing  it  would  be  to  drive  a  fellow-creature 
to  despair  !  " 

"  Monsieur  Grosjean,"  she  called  softly  after  him 
as  he  was  turning  away,  "  one  thing  I  should  like 
^o  ask  you." 

"  A  voire  service,  ma  soour  ?  " 

"  Where  is—she  ?  " 

"  The  body,  you  mean  ?  In  a  room  near  the 
station.     It  will  be  buried  to-morrow." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  her  once  more.  Would  it 
be  possible  ?  " 

"  Why — yes,  I  suppose  so.  I  will  write  a  line 
which  you  can  present  to  the  people  of  the  house, 
and  they  will  admit  you.  Come  to  my  bureau 
down-stairs  when  you  want  it." 

"  Thank  you." 

She  went  in  to  her  patient,  who  was  tranquilly 
unconscious  of  the  tragedy,  and  told  him  she  was 
going  out.  Then,  exchanging  her  indoor  for  an 
outdoor  veil,  she  set  forth  duly  furnished  with  an 
order  for  admittance  from  the  landlord.  It  was 
a  lovely  morning,  the  sunlight  sparkling  on  a 
thousand  ripples  over  the  sea,  the  clear  blue  head- 
lands standing  out  distinct  and  fair  along  the  coast, 
Bordighera  and  San  Remo  and  all  the  Italian  coast 
on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other  the  white  gleam 
of  fair,  foul,  Circe-like  Monte  Carlo,  like  some  vile, 
beauteous  traitress,  laughing  beneath  the  warmth 
of  the  sun. 

"  What  a  beautiful  world  God  has  made,  and 


MKS.    BARTLE    TEE  LING.  31/ 

how  man  has  destroyed  it  !  "  she  thought  to  herself, 
as  we  all  have  thought  when  we  gaze  on  the  loveli- 
ness of  earth  and  sea  and  sky  which  men  call  "  the 
Riviera."  Even  Sister  Gabrielle — though  she  was 
a  somewhat  prosaic  httle  soul — felt  uplifted  for  a 
moment  into  a  feeling  of  that  delight  in  living,  that 
contentment  in  the  mere  sense  of  existence,  which 
so  seldom  visits  the  inhaliitants  of  any  duller  clime, 
and  which  one  pictures  to  one's  self  as  the  true  key- 
note of  human  joy  in  the  old  Greek  times.  And 
this  all-pervading  beauty  and  entrancement  of  na- 
ture in  early  summer  helped  to  bring  a  sharp,  pain- 
ful shock  to  her  mind  as  she  crossed  the  threshold 
of  the  darkened  house  indicated  in  her  paper  of  di- 
rections, and  knew  herself  in  the  presence  of  death. 

"  You  know  the  povcra  donna  ?  "  questioned  the 
gaunt,  black-haired  woman  who  guarded  the  death- 
chamber,  and  reached  down  with  one  hand  a  key 
from  the  wall  above  her,  while  the  other  arm  sup- 
ported a  little  swarthy  "  bambino  "  swaddled  in 
rags. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  her,"  answered  the  nun,  gather- 
ing, though  imperfectly,  the  sense  of  the  patois 
speech. 

The  woman  turned  the  key  and  signed  to  her 
to  enter  the  room  beyond,  where,  on  a  humble  bed, 
lay  a  shrouded  form.  Yes,  it  was  Marion  Fal- 
coner. The  sad,  dark  eyes  which  she  had  watched 
so  often  turning  in  hopeless  longing  towards  the 
light  were  closed  now,  in  everlasting  rest.      The 


3l8  HER   LAST  STAKE. 

poor,  thin  hands  were  folded  peacefully  upon  her 
breast,  and  as  Sister  Gabrielle  laid  her  own  warm 
one  upon  them  she  started,  for  there  beneath  her 
touch,  twined  tightly  among  the  stiff  fingers,^  was 
the  little  red  rosary  she  had  given. 

"  Yes,"  nodded  the  woman,  noticing  her  start  of 
surprise,  "  it  is  a  chaplet.  It  was  found  clasped  in 
her  hands  when  she  died,  and  I  placed  it  there. 
One  would  have  thought  she  had  been  a  Catholic, 
would  not  one  ?  Only  it  is  not  so,  of  course,  for 
she  was  an  Inglese,  and  they  are  not  Cristiani." 

"  She  was  a  Catholic,"  answered  the  nun,  in  her 
broken  Italian.  "  You  must  tell  them  so."  And 
then  she  knelt  and  prayed,  with  a  strange,  dream- 
like sense  of  sorrow  and  loss  for  the  soul  whose 
earthly  tenement  she  had  so  long  tended,  until  the 
woman  grew  impatient  at  her  stay,  and  she  knew 
she  must  return  to  her  own  work.  "  You  will  no 
more  come  back  to  that  dull  room,  to  sadness  and 
pain,  and  weary  waiting  and  anxious  fears,"  she 
whispered,  leaning  over  the  quiet  dead  form.  "  Do 
you  know  now  how  I  prayed  for  you  ?  I  will  still 
pray,  all  my  life,  for  your  soul;  and — God  is  very 
merciful.  Good-by,  dear;  good-by  !  "  And  she 
kissed  the  white,  cold  lips,  and  went  back  into  the 
southern  sunshine. 

And  this  was  all — all  that  Sister  Gabrielle  ever 
knew;  for  one's  prayers  are  not  always  visibly  an- 
swered in  this  world.     And  so  it  was  that  the 


MRS.    BARTLE    'FEELING.  319 

tender-hearted  little  nun  had  never  the  consolation 
of  learning  (until,  perchance,  it  was  told  her  by 
angel  voices  in  the  hereafter)  how  the  trembling 
footsteps  had,  even  as  she  hoped,  turned  backwards 
like  those  of  the  Prodigal,  to  "  arise  and  go  to  the 
Father,"  with  a  last  plaintive  appeal  to  Mary  on  her 
lips  and  in  her  heart  as  she  clasped  the  little  rosary, 
when  the  Divine  Mercy,  more  merciful  than  its 
creatures,  answered  that  appeal  by  a  brief  and  all 
but  painless  death. 


KATHARINE  TYNAN  HINKSON. 


Miss  Katharine  Tynan  was  born  in  Dublin,  and  edu- 
cated at  the  Donninican  Convent  of  St.  Catharine  of  Siena, 
in  Drogheda.  She  began  to  write  verse  when  very  young, 
and  her  first  poem  appeared  in  The  Graphic.  In  1885  was 
published  her  first  book,  "  Louise  de  la  Valliere  and  Other 
Poems."  It  was  a  success  and  quickly  ran  into  several 
editions.  This  book  was  followed  by  "  Shamrocks,"  in  1887, 
and  '•  Ballads  and  Lyrics  "  in  1892.  Her  first  prose  work 
was  "  The  Life  of  Mother  M.  Xaveria  Fallon,"  which  also 
appeared  in  1892.  Since  then  she  has  published  "  A  Clus- 
ter of  Nuts,"  being  sketches  of  Irish  life  ;  "  Cuckoo  Songs," 


"  The  Way  of  a  Maid,"  "  The  Land  of  Mist  and  Mountain." 
"  Miracle  Plays."  "  An  Isle  in  the  Water,"  and  "  Oh,  What 
a  Plague  is  Love  !  " 

A  critic  says  of  her:  "  All  her  poems  are  marked  by 
delicacy  and  musical  deftness ;  but  in  her  stories  she  has 
shown  a  breadth  of  treatment,  humor,  and  deep  knowledge 
of  human  nature  that  are  not  evident  in  her  poetical  com- 
positions to  anything  like  the  same  extent."  That  her 
genius  is  remarkably  versatile  is  shown  by  a  comparison  of 
"An  Isle  in  the  Water"  and  "Oh,  What  a  Plague  is 
Love  I  "  The  one  is  a  collection  of  short  stories  depicting 
the  loves  passions,  and  hatreds  of  the  rude  mountain  and 
sea  folk,  and  for  its  vigor  has  been  likened  to  the  plays  of 
Ibsen  and  the  novels  of  Toorgenef ;  the  other  deals  with  the 
frivolities  and  artificialities  of  fashionable  life,  and  is  equally 
as  good  in  its  way  as  the  first. 

Miss  Tynan  was  married  in  1893  to  Mr.  H.  A.  Hinkson, 
who  is  also  engaged  in  literary  work,  and  since  her  marriage 
she  has  made  her  home  in  the  neighborhood  of  London. 
She  is  a  constant  contributor  of  stories,  articles,  and  reviews 
to  the  literary  magazines  of  England,  and  an  occasional 
writer  for  The  Pilot  and  The  Ave  Maria  in  the  United 
States, 


XTbe  Mar^robe♦ 

BY  KATHARINE  TYNAN   HINKSON. 

"  Well,  then,  John  Marnane,"  said  one  of  the 
neighbors,  "  an'  what  brings  the  Uke  o'  you  here  at 
all  ?     Thinkin'  o'  furnishin',  John,  hey  ?  " 

John  grinned  all  over  his  sunburnt  face,  uncouth 
in  its  stubby  beard.  Hay  dust  was  powdered 
over  his  old  coat  and  on  his  thick  hair,  hiding  the 
places  where  it  was  fast  turning  gray.  He  was  a 
grotesque  figure,  yet  under  his  shaggy  brows  the 
blue  eyes  were  mild  and  innocent,  and  as  he 
drawled  an  answer  his  voice  was  gentle.  At  the 
sound  of  it  his  old  pony,  in  a  little  chaise  long  in- 
nocent of  the  mop  and  bucket,  lifted  its  head  and 
whinnied. 

"  I  came  where  I  saw  the  crowd,"  John  ex- 
plained. "  I  thought  there  must  be  divarsion  goin' 
on." 

"  Well,  John,"  said  the  other,  facetiously, 
"  aren't  you  a  great  fellow  all  out  for  divarsion  ? 
Look  here,  boys,"  to  a  crowd  of  his  friends,  "  here's 
John  Marnane  on  the  lookout  for  a  wife.  He's 
here  to  buy  the  furniture.  Stand  by  me,  John,  an* 
I'll  advise  you." 

323 


324  THE    WARDROBE. 

The  others  gathered  round  to  join  in  the  joke, 
and  for  a  few  minutes  the  auctioneer  paused  with 
upHfted  hammer,  and  smiled  sympathetically.  He, 
too,  had  known  John  Marnane  from  childhood, 
and  enjoyed  the  friendly  badgering  he  was  taking 
so  well.  But  business  cannot  long  wait  on  pleas- 
ure. The  languid  bidding  was  for  an  old  ward- 
robe, cumbrous  and  ugly,  and  as  big  as  the  side  of 
a  house. 

"  A  pound  for  this  beautiful  article,  a  pound,  go- 
ing at  a  pound,  a  guinea,  one  pound  half-a-crown, 
one  pound  five.  Mr.  Marnane,  allow  me  to  call 
your  attention  to  this  commodious  article.  It's 
dirt-cheap  at  the  money.  You  couldn't  make  a 
handsomer  present  to  the  mistress  to  hang  her 
dresses  in.  What  did  you  say,  Mr.  Marnane  ? 
Twenty-seven  shillings  ?  " 

He  leaned  over  frolicsomely.  The  men  at  John's 
elbow  grinned  and  encouraged  him. 

"  Come  on  now,  John.  Be  a  man  an'  spake  up. 
There  isn't  such  a  chance  once  in  a  lifetime." 

"  Sure  you  could  get  herself  an'  her  gew-gaws 
and  the  girl's  frocks  an'  the  boys'  shuits  'idin  it. 
'Tis  as  big  as  a  Noah's  Ark." 

"  The  girls  is  watchin'  you,  John.  Show  them 
the  spunk  you've  in  you." 

John,  bashfully  grinning,  wriggled  in  the  hands 
of  his  friendly  tormentors.  As  he  looked  from  side 
to  side  for  a  loophole  of  escape  he  caught  sight  of  a 
pretty  face  dimpling  all  over  with  enjoyment  of  the 


KATHARINE    TYNAN  H INK  SON.  ^2$ 

joke.  It  was  a  rosy  face,  with  little  teeth  between 
wide  scarlet  lips,  and  roguish  eyes  under  upward- 
curling  black  lashes.  Something  went  through 
John  Marnane  like  an  electric  shock.  For  a  sec- 
ond it  seemed  to  himself  as  if  he  must  have  trembled 
in  his  captors'  hands,  then  he  was  quiet  again  and 
looking  carefully  in  the  opposite  direction. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Marnane,  you've  a  bidder  against 
you.  Twenty-seven  shillings  !  any  advance  on 
twenty-seven  shillings  ?  Did  you  speak,  Miss  ?  " 
to  the  pretty  girl.  "  Are  you  hesitating,  Mr.  Mar- 
nane, an'  the  eyes  of  a  purty  girl  leppin'  out  of  her 
to  be  the  mistress  of  the  wardrobe  ?  " 

"  Twenty-eight  !  "  said  John  Marnane. 

A  roar  of  delight  burst  from  the  crowd. 

"  Twenty-eight  shillings  I  Thank  you,  Mr. 
Marnane.  Any  bidding  over  twenty-eight  ? 
Twenty-eight  shillings  for  a  wardrobe  as  big  as  the 
Great  Aisteni  I  Twenty-eight  shillings  !  Going, 
going,  gone  !  The  wardrobe  to  Mr.  Marnane, 
Johnny." 

The  auctioneer's  clerk  made  his  entry  broadly 
grinning.  Every  one  was  grinning  except  John 
himself,  who  had  grown  deadly  serious.  One  ar- 
ticle after  another  of  Father  Sheeran's  heavy,  old- 
fashioned  furniture  was  put  up.  John  kept  bid- 
ding with  steady  determination. 

The  savor  went  out  of  the  joke  by  degrees.  They 
had  thought  they  were  egging  on  the  man  to  ac- 
quire things  he  had  no  use  for.       Now,  it  would 


326  THE    WARDROBE. 

seem  that  he  had  come  with  the  dehberate  mten- 
tion  of  purchasing.  Curiosity  took  the  place  of 
laughter  on  the  faces  of  the  crowd:  only  a  few  irate 
matrons  who  had  come  bargain-hunting  protested 
they  needn't  have  come  there  at  all,  at  all,  if  they 
had  had  word  that  Mr.  Marnane  wanted  every- 
thing. 

As  John  pushed  his  way  out  of  the  crowd  after 
the  auction  was  over,  Larry  Brophy,  the  man  who 
had  just  accosted  him,  took  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Well,  aren't  you  a  sly  fellow,  John,"  he  said 
seriously,  "  to  do  your  coortin'  on  the  quiet,  unbe- 
knownst to  us  all  ?  She's  not  a  girl  from  these 
parts,  anyhow  ?  " 

John  looked  at  him  with  the  gambling  excite- 
ment of  the  auction  still  in  his  eyes.  He  looked 
quite  different  somehow  from  the  John  Marnane 
whom  it  had  seemed  natural  to  ridicule  earlier  in 
the  day.  He  had  the  air  of  a  man  with  responsi- 
bilities. The  slouch  had  disappeared  from  his  gait, 
and  he  looked  taller. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  know  her." 

"  Come  up  to  my  place  and  have  a  glass  of  grog, 
and  tell  us  all  about  her.  Were  you  courtin'  her 
in  the  mother's  lifetime  ?  You  must  have  been, 
you  sly  dog,  for  sure  the  poor  ould  woman's  only 
six  weeks,  come  Tuesday,  in  her  grave." 

John  drew  himself  gently  from  the  detaining 
hand.  "  I  can't  talk  about  it  yet,  Larry,"  he  said 
with   dignity,   "  and   I   can't   come   up   to-night, 


KATHARINE    TYNAN  HINKSON.  327 

thank  you  kindly,  all  the  same.  I've  things  to  see 
to  at  my  own  place." 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  won't,  you  won't,"  said  the 
other,  a  little  offended.  "  Though  how  you  can 
employ  yourself  of  an  evening  in  that  ould  place  o' 
yours,  wid  not  a  sowd  to  spake  to  but  ould  Marga- 
ret Connors  fairly  bothers  me." 

John  Marnane  went  on  without  a  word.  If  the 
two  men  had  been  together  a  minute  longer  Bro- 
phy  might  have  been  enlightened.  As  John  was 
mounting  his  shabby  old  car,  a  little  ass-cart  drove 
out  before  him  into  the  road.  The  driver  was  the 
pretty  girl  with  the  pink  cheeks.  In  the  back  of 
the  cart  she  had  a  few  common  household  utensils 
she  had  picked  up  cheaply.  She  wore  a  poor,  lit- 
tle cotton  frock  of  a  pink  color,  out  of  which  she 
looked  like  a  moss  rosebud.  She  sat  on  a  plank 
crossing  the  cart,  and  jogged  the  ass  along  with  a 
loose  rein.  At  the  sight  of  her  something  fierce 
and  hungry  leaped  into  John  Marnane's  quiet  eyes. 
It  was  there  for  a  second  before  it  was  replaced  by 
the  sleepy  affectionateness,  which  was  his  normal 
expression  like  that  of  a  well-treated  dog.  He 
waited  a  minute  or  two  to  let  the  girl  go  on.  Then 
he  followed,  making  his  pony  walk,  while,  with  an 
elaborate  pretence,  he  lighted  his  old  clay  pipe. 

The  girl  took  the  road  up  the  mountain.  John 
followed,  driving  very  slowly,  and  keeping  her  in 
sight.  He  was  so  engrossed  in  watching  her  that 
*t  never  occurred  to  him  what  people  might  think 


328  THE    WARDROBE. 

if  they  met  him  on  a  road  leading  directly  away 
from  his  home. 

It  was  hawthorn  time,  and  the  dewy  evening 
was  full  of  fragrance.  The  wild  roses  were  open- 
ing, and  a  few  early  meadows  were  cut.  Still  the 
corncrake  was  sawing  monotonously,  and  the 
cuckoo  was  calling  close  at  hand.  A  little  crescent 
of  a  new  moon  in  the  sky  had  a  faint  silver  star 
within  its  horns. 

The  girl  pulled  up  at  a  little  thatched  cabin  by 
the  side  of  a  boreen  twisting  up  the  mountain.  As 
she  stopped  John  pulled  up  his  pony.  He  knew 
now  where  the  girl  lived,  and  was  satisfied.  He 
jogged  homewards  in  the  dewy  twilight  full  of  a 
sweet  disturbance  such  as  he  had  never  known  in 
all  his  fifty  years.  An  unexpected  fount  of  ro- 
mance, a  spring  of  boyishness  in  John  Marnane's 
elderly  heart  had  been  tapped  to-day. 

He  drove  up  to  his  house-front,  suddenly  aware 
of  its  deficiencies.  It  was  a  square,  ugly  house, 
such  as  they  build  in  Ireland.  Thre'e  windows 
above,  two  below,  with  a  hall-door  in  the  middle 
displayed  their  uninviting  symme(ry.  The  sloping 
roof  was  of  blue  slate;  the  hall-door  had  once  been 
painted  green,  but  the  paint  had  come  ofif  in  flakes, 
and  the  knocker  was  broken.  The  uncurtained 
windows  were  like  black  patches  in  the  white- 
washed walls.  A  broken  barrow  lay  by  the  hall- 
door,  half  hidden  among  dock  and  dandelion. 
The  gravel  path  was  covered  with  coarse  grass  and 


KATHARIXE    TYNAN  HINKSON.  $29 

rubbish  of  old  iron  and  broken  crockery.  In  what 
once  had  been  a  flower-bed  there  was  a  heap  of  dry 
dust  :  it  was  the  dust-bath  of  the  hens.  John  Mar- 
nane  shook  his  grizzhng  head  deprecatingly. 

"  It  did  me  and  the  old  woman,  God  rest  her, 
well  enough,  but  it  won't  do  for  her  at  all,  at  all." 

He  put  up  his  pony  leisurely,  and  went  in.  On 
the  kitchen  table  a  coarse  cloth  was  flung,  with  a 
blue  crockery  mug,  a  black-handled  knife  and 
fork,  some  salt  in  an  egg-cup,  and  a  jug  of  butter- 
milk. 

He  glanced  at  these  homely  preparations  for  his 
supper,  and  around  the  smoke-browned  kitchen  in 
the  bare  rafters  of  which  the  hens  were  roosting. 
A  handful  of  smouldering  turf  ashes  was  on  the 
hearth,  and  from  the  hook  in  the  black  chimney 
there  swung  a  pot  of  floury  potatoes.  There 
were  tins  on  the  wall  and  crockery  on  the  tall 
dresser,  but  all  were  one  color  with  the  smoke. 
Old  Peg  sat  on  her  heels  by  the  turf  embers  cook- 
ing a  rasher  of  coarse  bacon,  and  a  blear-eyed  old 
dog  wagged  his  tail  feebly  as  John  Marnane 
came  in. 

"  You're  late  home,"  the  old  woman  said  queru- 
lously. "  I  hope  you're  not  goin'  to  take  to  gad 
now  herself  is  gone." 

John  Marnane  looked  at  her  as  if  he  had  not 
heard  her.  He  went  through  the  kitchen  into  a 
mean  and  dirty  hall  skirting  a  narrow  staircase. 
He  opened  the  door  at  the  right-hand  side  and 


/ 

330  THE    WARDROBE. 

looked  in.  A  musty  smell  came  from  the  place, 
an  odor  of  dampness  mixed  with  the  all-pervading 
turf-smoke.  The  tattered  blinds  were  down,  and 
he  could  not  make  out  in  the  dark  the  round  table, 
the  green  rep  chairs  and  couch,  the  gilt  looking- 
glass,  and  the  colored  religious  pictures  which  were 
the  adornments  of  the  late  Mrs.  Marnane's  best 
parlor.  Still  those  glories  were  there  hiding  in  the 
darkness.  John  Marnane  smiled  to  himself.  The 
best  parlor  was  not  to  say  a  comfortable  room,  but 
with  her  in  it  things  would  l^e  different.  She  was 
sure  to  be  pleased  with  the  furniture,  and  the  Brus- 
sels carpet  with  roses,  and  the  hearth-rug,  and  the 
shavings  interspersed  with  silver  and  gold  tinsel 
in  the  grate. 

He  opened  the  other  door  with  less  satisfaction. 
There  wTre  sacks  of  potatoes  all  round  the  wall, 
and  the  only  articles  of  furniture  were  his  mother's 
shiny  old  arm-chair  and  the  tall,  ungainly  office 
desk,  with  its  high  stool,  at  which  since  his  mother 
died  he  had  laboriously  pored  over  his  accounts. 
He  looked  around  the  dusky  room.  He  could 
have  thought  that  he  saw  the  old  mother  sitting 
there,  erect  in  her  rusty  black,  with  the  nodding 
purple  ribbons  and  red  flowers  in  her  cap.  He 
quailed  at  the  thought.  He  had  been  dutifully 
fond  of  his  mother,  and  had  grieved  for  her  with 
the  forlornness  of  one  from  whom  after  half  a  cen- 
tury a  fetter  has  been  removed.  But,  good  son  as 
he  was,  he  had  never  entered  that  room  while  she 


KATHARINE   TYNAN  HINKSON.  331 

sat  there  without  feeHng  Hke  a  truant  schoolboy. 
Why,  up  to  the  last  day  she  lived  it  had  been  a 
fiction  between  them  that  he  had  never  learned  to 
smoke. 

He  struck  a  match  and  Ht  the  tallow  candle  that 
was  stuck  in  a  bottle  on  the  desk. 

"  She  was  a  great  old  woman,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "  an'  did  better  by  me  thin  I'd  ever  ha'  done 
by  myself.  Still  it  might  ha'  been  better  if  she'd 
given  me  more  of  a  voice  in  things.  I  wouldn't  be 
so  terrible  helpless  an'  good  for  nothin'  now." 

He  went  up-stairs,  the  candle  guttering  down 
the  bottle  on  to  his  hands  all  the  time.  A  gro- 
tesque shadow  of  himself  went  after  him  up  the 
gaunt  walls,  where  the  gray  plaster  had  grown 
grimy.  On  the  landing  he  stepped  into  a  hole  in 
the  floor.     He  shook  his  head  gently. 

"  'Twould  be  a  nasty  place  for  a  little,  soft  foot," 
he  muttered.     "  I'll  have  in  Flynn  to  see  to  it." 

He  went  into  one  of  the  bedrooms.  The  tester 
bedstead,  with  its  torn  hangings,  stood  in  the  midst 
of  what  with  its  two  windows  might  have  been  a 
pleasantly  light  and  airy  room.  The  bed  was  cov- 
ered with  a  tattered  patchwork  quilt.  The  bare 
floor  had  the  grime  of  ages  upon  it,  and  cobwebs 
hung  from  window  to  window.  The  unpapered 
walls  were  covered  with  stains,  and  in  many  places 
there  was  the  smoke  where  a  candle  had  been  al- 
lowed to  lean  too  near,  or  had  toppled  over  in  its 
primitive  candlestick.     A  couple  of  cane-bottotned 


332  THE    WARDROBE. 

chairs  had  lost  their  seats.  A  painted  deal  dress- 
ing-table was  covered  with  candle-grease  and  other 
dirt,  and  the  glass  upon  it  was  green  in  color  and 
cracked  from  end  to  end.  John  Marnane  shook 
his  head  more  violently  than  before. 

He  put  down  the  candle  on  the  chimney-piece, 
and  his  eyes  half-closed,  a  trick  he  had  acquired  in 
his  many  moments  of  lonely  reflection.  He  was 
remembering  a  bedroom  he  had  once  seen  when  he 
had  visited  a  cousin.  It  had  pink  roses  on  a  trel- 
lis for  its  wall-paper,  and  white  lace  curtains  tied 
with  pink  bows,  and  a  dressing-table  draped  with 
shiny  pink  calico  and  lace.  He  wondered  whether 
he  could  imitate  that  delightful  room.  In  a  vision 
he  saw  this  uninviting  bed-chamber  so  trans- 
figured. 

As  he  turned  away  he  caught  sight  of  a  dis- 
torted reflection  of  himself  in  the  cracked  looking- 
glass.  For  a  second  a  horrible  misgiving  smote 
him.  Then  he  deliberately  turned  the  thing  round. 
If  he  had  been  another  kind  of  man  he  would  prob- 
ably have  kicked  it  to  pieces,  for  it  had  given  him 
a  horrible  fright,  and  he  had  felt  a  quiver  of  that 
mingled  rage  and  fear  which  is  one  of  the  most 
driving  of  passions.  But  as  the  glass  turned  away 
its  cracked  face  he  recovered  himself  with  an  awk- 
ward smile. 

"  It  would  make  a  show  of  a  saint,  so  it  would," 
he  muttered.  '*  I  was  the  quare-lookin'  gom  with 
them  cracks  runnin'  up  an'  down  my  cheeks,  for 


KATHARINE    TYNAN  HINKSON.  333 

all  th«!.  world  like  onld  swoord-ciits.  For  a  minute 
it  staggered  me,  till  it  came  back  upon  me  that  it 
was  th'  ould  cracks  in  the  glass." 

He  shook  off  his  fright  as  one  might  brush  away 
a  troublesome  insect,  and  went  down  to  the  kit- 
chen, where  he  sat  cheerfully  to  his  supper. 

"  Peg,"  he  said,  in  the  course  of  conversation, 
"  did  you  ever  hear  my  mother  say  rightly  what 
age  I  was  ?  " 

*'  You'll  be  fifty  come  Michaelma?.  You  were 
born  a  week  after  my  own  Bat,  Lord  rest  him." 

"  Would  you  say,  Peggy,"  with  an  air  of  em- 
barrassment, "  that  fifty  was  what  you'd  call  gettin' 
on  for  a  man  ?  " 

"  Geitin'  on  !  You'll  be  gettin'  on  whin  you're 
seventy.  What's  puttin'  such  notions  into  jour 
mind  ?  " 

"  My  mother  trated  me  as  a  child,  Peggy,  an', 
upon  my  word,  I  often  feel  very  young.  She  used 
to  say  that  a  man  was  a  boy  as  long  as  he  wasn't 
marrid." 

"  The  world  knows  that.  People's  marryin' 
younger  now — the  men  Is,  I  mane.  Why,  I  re- 
member whin  a  man  didn't  get  lookln'  about  him 
till  he  was  gettin'  on  for  sixty." 

"  I  should  be  young  o'  my  age,  too.  I  never 
went  drinkin',  or  card-playin',  or  to  a  wrastlin'- 
match,  or  a  cock-fight.  The  mother  wouldn't 
have  it,  as  you  know.  Peg." 

"  She  was  right.     They're  dirty  occupations." 


334  THE    WARDROBE. 

"  You  don't  think  any  one  'ud  call  me  old, 
Peg  ?  "  he  asked  anxiously. 

"  What's  come  to  the  man  ?  If  it's  match-mak- 
ing you're  after,  you're  the  match  o'  the  youngest 
girl  in  the  barony." 

John  Marnane  drew  a  relieved  sigh. 

"  You  don't  think  the  young  girls  falls  in  love 
wid  their  aiquils  in  age  ?  " 

"  Falls  in  love  !  God  forgive  you,  John  Mar- 
nane, what  would  your  poor  mother  say  if  she 
heard  you  ?  What  nonsense  is  in  your  head  ? 
Girls  don't  fall  in  love,  at  laste  if  they're  what  they 
ought  to  be.  They  takes  the  boy  their  match  is 
made  with,  an'  thankful.  I  never  knew  but  one 
case  of  what  they  called  '  fallin'  in  love.*  It  ended 
bad." 

John  Marnane  turned  away  with  a  sigh  from 
this  iron  code  of  manners.  He  had  a  sense  of  his 
own  weakness  in  desiring  that  strange  foreign 
commodity  known  as  love,  and  he  was  not  minded 
to  discover  it  to  Peggy's  sharp  eyes.  He  lit  his 
candle  and  went  to  bed. 

Years  of  inaction  had,  perhaps,  left  him  with 
a  surplus  of  energy.  Anyhow,  he  put  his  old  house 
into  the  hands  of  the  painter  and  paper-hanger  in  the 
little  country  town  with  amazing  rapidity.  His  in- 
vestments at  the  auction  were  stored  in  an  out- 
house till  the  rooms  should  be  ready  for  them.  He 
displayed  a  quite  unexpected  frivolity  in  the  choice 
of  paint  and  paper.     The  flowers  and  the  colors 


KATHARINE    TYNAN  HINKSON.  335 

were  of  the  gayest.  From  the  mart,  as  the  country 
town  called  its  big  shop,  he  carried  home  surrep- 
titiously bundles  of  flowery  chintz  and  lace  cur- 
tains and  such  fripperies. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  these  things  did 
not  make  a  nine  days'  wonder.  The  doing-up  of 
John's  house  took  time.  He  chafed  in  silence 
over  the  slowness  of  the  men,  but  outwardly  he 
was  an  image  of  patient  contentment.  People 
stopped  him  in  the  road  to  ply  him  with  questions 
and  chaff.  He  baffled  them  clumsily  but  effectu- 
ally. They  approached  old  Peg  whenever  they 
got  an  opportunity,  but  she  knew  as  little  as  they. 
The  work  went  on.  At  last  the  best  bedroom  was 
finished,  and  John,  who  had  carried  himself  stol- 
idly before  the  workmen,  was  at  liberty  to  moon 
in  and  out  of  the  room  and  admire  its  beauties  be- 
held of  no  man. 

He  had  made  no  attempt  to  see  the  girl  who 
had  so  captivated  his  fancy.  When  he  had  the 
place  ready  for  her  he  would  ask  her.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  him  that  she  might  refuse.  He  was  a 
"  strong "  farmer,  far  wealthier  than  people 
thought  him,  and  she  was  a  poor  cottager's  daugh- 
ter. He  glowed  with  delight  at  the  thought  of 
the  benefits  he  would  bestow  upon  her. 

At  last  the  workmen  were  finished.  John  Mar- 
nane  was  leaning  over  his  gate  the  same  evening 
thinking  upon  how  he  should  approach  the  girl. 
Why  he  didn't  even  know  her  name,  and  yet  his 


33^  THE    WARDROBE. 

house  stood  ready  for  her.  He  could  not  much 
longer  restrain  the  ardor  which  burned  within  him. 
To-morrow  he  would  climb  the  mountain  over 
there  and  find  her. 

As  he  stood  smoking  his  pipe,  to  all  appear- 
ance placidly,  Larry  Brophy  came  down  the  road. 
The  two  men  nodded. 

"  When  is  the  haulin'  home  to  be  ?  "  asked  the 
newcomer.  The  curiosity  and  the  jokes  were 
rather  stale,  and  he  spoke  in  a  bored  voice. 

"  Very  soon,  now,  Larry,"  announced  John 
Marnane,  and  the  other  man  couldn't  tell  whether 
he  jested  or  not. 

"  The  house  is  finished,  I  hear.  I  met  Fogarty's 
men  going  home  wid  the  ladders  on  a  cart." 

"  It  is." 

"  It'll  look  well  when  the  sticks  is  in." 

"  Well  enough,"  said  the  owner,  with  secret 
pride. 

"  Got  the  wardrobe  in  yet,  John  ?  " 

"  Not  yet." 

"  'Twill  be  a  terrible  job  to  get  it  in,  and  up  your 
stairs.  You  got  it  chape,  but  I  don't  know  that 
it'll  be  a  bargain  after  all.  You'd  better  have  let  it 
fall  to  Susie  Kavanagh,  though  where  she'd  put  it 
bangs  me." 

John's  eyes  lit  up. 

"  I  don't  know  Susie  Kavanagh,"  he  said  slowly. 

"  Kavanagh's  daughter  that  lives  in  the  glen 
above  there.     They  call  her  the  Cluster  of  Nuts. 


KATHARINE    TYNAN  HINKSON.  337 

Where  wor  your  eyes,  man,  not  to  see  the  purty 
face  of  her  ?  " 

"  I  half  disremember,"  said  John,  hypocritically. 
*'  Was  she  a  stout  woman  wid  a  Paisley  shawl  ?  " 

Larry  snorted  contemptuously. 

"  You  an'  your  stout  woman  !  She  was  a  little 
brown  girl  wid  a  frock  the  color  of  her  cheeks,  an' 
roguish  eyes.  You  ould  omadaun,  not  to  have  no- 
ticed the  purtiest  girl  in  the  country  !  " 

John  laughed  delightedly. 

"  Is  it  an  ould  bachelor  like  me  ?  "  he  said,  ex- 
pecting a  shower  of  raillery. 

"  Just  as  well,"  went  on  Larry  soberly,  "  for  she 
was  called  the  third  time  last  Sunday.  Young 
Fenlon's  her  match.  There  won't  be  as  handsome 
a  pair  to  dance  at  the  weddin'." 

The  other  man  stared  at  him  with  eyes  that 
leaped  out  of  his  face.  A  cold  sweat  gathered 
upon  his  forehead,  and  a  mist  before  his  eyes. 

"  Well,  I  must  be  goin',"  said  Larry,  who  had 
noticed  nothing.  "  Good-evenin'  kindly.  You'll 
be  sure  to  ask  me  to  the  weddin',  John  ?  " 

"  Oh,  aye,"  said  John  mechanically. 

He  went  up-stairs  to  the  best  bedroom,  and  sat 
down  on  the  bedstead,  which  had  been  freshly  var- 
nished. He  looked  round  the  room  stupidly,  and 
the  blood  seemed  to  come  into  his  eyes.  Then  an 
ache  of  pity  for  himself  smote  him  dully.  He  had 
hoped  for  a  thing  for  the  first  and  only  time  in  his 
life,  and  he  had  been  disappointed.     He  knew  that 


338  THE    WARDROBE. 

there  would  be  no  spring  in  him  to  make  him 
begin  anew.  His  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  he 
began  to  cry.  Again  and  again,  like  a  great  lout- 
ish boy,  he  wiped  away  the  tears  with  the  dirty 
sleeve  of  his  coat,  till  he  looked  more  than  ever  a 
pitiable  object. 

It  was  long  before  the  fountain  of  his  tears  was 
dried.  Then  at  last  he  lifted  his  head,  and  gazed 
with  inflamed  eyes  at  a  patch  of  moonlight  on  the 
floor.     He  spoke  out  his  latest  thought  in  words. 

"  I'm  thinkin',"  he  said,  "  that  I  might  as  well 
break  up  the  ould  wardrobe  wid  a  hammer." 


PSINTBD  BY  BENZIGEK  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


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